I’m camped under a lazy fly ball in shallow left. It’s totally routine, but really high. Jackson took a big cut and just got under it. It feels like I wait three minutes for it to come down, and I realize I’m nervous. Nervous for this can of corn! I don’t think I’ve missed one of these since I was eight. That’s how I know that the stakes are high.

It’s the second half of practice on Tuesday, and we’re having a little three-inning mini game. There’s nothing unusual about that, except that our first game is Saturday. Coach is either setting the starting lineup or he already has. Obvious starters, like Manny, are playing for both teams.

I’m in left for one team, and Geoff is in left for the other. Everyone already knows one of us will start out here. When Jackson’s pop-up smacks into the webbing of my glove for the third out, I cover it with my other hand. This isn’t the time to take chances.

It isn’t the time to pop out weakly to shallow left, either, but Jackson is safe as the starter at first. I smile a little on my way in for the top of the second inning. It has to be the first time in baseball history that someone is safe at first after popping out!

Anyway, I’m due up second, since Malfoy sat us down one, two, three in the first inning. I toss my glove to the ground, pick up the bat I like, and go straight to the on-deck circle. I take a few warm-up cuts.

It would be so sweet to get a big hit here, so sweet on so many levels. First of all, it would be off Malfoy, that smug-faced jerk-butt. Second, and a lot more important, it might give me a leg up on Geoff. He hasn’t batted yet either. Coach has him batting fifth for his team, too. No one on their team has even sniffed a hit against our ace pitcher, J.P., but Geoff will get his chance in the bottom of the inning.

Dustin steps into the box. He’s our catcher, and he has some pop, so he’s batting cleanup. Malfoy fires in a first-pitch strike and pumps his fist as he waits to get the ball back. What a jerk: It’s just one strike. I need to focus, though. In one more pitch, I could be up.

I start trying to time Malfoy’s fastball. He has a pretty good one. Dustin works the count even at two balls and two strikes. On the fifth pitch, he laces one into left.

It’s heading for Geoff but sinking fast. For a second, I think Geoff might run in and make some crazy diving catch, which would be great for him, or a diving miss, which would be great for me. But he does the smart thing and plays it on one hop to hold Dustin to a single.

And just like that, I’m up with a runner on. Dustin isn’t fast at all, so I have to worry about hitting into a double play. As I step into the batter’s box, I can see that Malfoy is really upset on the mound. It was just a single, but he’s stomping around and swearing under his breath. He’s the only person on the team who doesn’t realize how much better a pitcher J.P. is, so he probably still thinks he has a shot at being our ace.

I go through my routine, digging my foot in, taking my four quick mini swings. Malfoy is ready before I am. As soon as my bat goes back, he fires in his best heater. That’s another sign of how mad he is: The pitch is definitely faster than any of the ones to Dustin.

I take a huge cut. I mean, remember, the last time I had a bat in my hands was in a batting cage. I can still feel the sensation of all of the solid, scorched liners I’d been hitting.

Basically, I’m swinging for the fences.

I’m too late on the fastball, of course, but I hit a long foul ball well to the right of right field. I think that makes Malfoy even madder, going up there and swinging out of my shoes like that. But what can he do? He’s already shown me his best heater.

He can come inside. I don’t know why I didn’t think of that! The pitch cuts in toward me, chest high. It’s one of those pitches where you can just tell right away you’re in trouble. The ball just seems to follow you. I lean back as far and as fast as I can, but it isn’t going to be enough. I fall backward into the dirt just as the ball hisses past me and clangs against the backstop.

That snake!

I stay down for a second to straighten out my legs and make sure everything is still in working order. The sun disappears, and I look up to see Coach standing above me. He’s behind the plate as the umpire.

“You OK?” he says.

“Yep,” I say, getting up. I’m not hurt, but my head is buzzing. There’s something going on in my stomach, too. Butterflies, nerves, whatever you want to call it. Malfoy is a nasty dude with a nasty fastball, and man, that would’ve hurt. Now I have to get back in there.

“One and one,” Coach calls out, squatting back down. “Watch it out there, Meacham!”

“He was crowding the plate!” Malfoy’s dad shouts. That’s the kind of thing you’d expect a parent to yell from the stands, not a coach from third base. Tim’s dad is an assistant coach, too, but if anything, he’s harder on his son. So it’s not like it’s impossible to be fair. And anyway, there’s no way I was crowding the plate. I have my routine. I’m always the right distance from the plate.

I try to glare out at Malfoy, but he’s already glaring in twice as hard. It’s like I’d thrown at him or something. Jerk-butt.

But here’s the thing: It really was a good pitch. It was a good pitch because I’m completely spooked on the next pitch and can only manage a weak hack at it. Suddenly, I’m down 1–2 and still a little shaken up.

I ask for time from Coach. He gives it to me, and I pretend there’s something wrong with my shoe. When I get back into the box, I still don’t feel that comfortable. I think about bunting. It’s stupid to bunt with two strikes. I’m as likely to foul out as advance the runner. Plus I’m afraid Malfoy will drill me in the teeth if I square around.

I just take the next pitch. I think it’s a strike, but Coach calls it a ball. It’s probably punishment for the brushback pitch.

“Come on, Edgar!” Malfoy’s dad yells at Coach.

“Shut up, Sam,” Coach whispers behind the plate. But it’s way too quiet for “Sam” to hear.

I sort of feel like I’m batting against Malfoy and his dad now, and I’m pretty sure Coach won’t give me another charity call.

It’s the fifth pitch of the at-bat, the same one Dustin lined to left. I should have the pitcher timed by now; I should be working the count. Instead, Malfoy is working me.

He drops in a slow changeup. Sneaky. After all of those fastballs, I’m about eight years ahead on the swing.

Strike three, take a seat, you suck.

We strand Dustin at third. The only good thing is that Geoff has to face J.P. in his half of the inning and goes down swinging.

“Chin music,” Chester says to me as we’re waiting to get picked up after practice.

“I’m tone-deaf, anyway,” I say, but it’s wishful thinking. I can still hear that pitch whizzing by me, clanging into the backstop. I can’t quite get it out of my head.

I barely say anything on the ride home. Dad asks me if I want to get takeout from somewhere, and I just say, “Nah.”

“Not even McDonald’s?”

I don’t say anything, and he doesn’t ask again.