Maybe it seems like I’m making a big deal out of starting. It’s Little League, so everyone is going to get at least one at-bat and some time in the field anyway. But our roster is maxed out, and that’s a lot of kids to stuff into a six-inning game. And it’s not like the big leagues, because starters can come back in the game after they’re subbed for.

If you’re a starter on my team, you’re going to be in there at the beginning, and at the end, too, if it’s close. Because you’re the best one at your position, and who doesn’t want that? My friends and I have played ball for most of our lives, and this is our last year of Little League. We don’t want to watch it from the bench.

So when Coach lines us up at the end of practice on Thursday, my stomach is turning over on itself, and my heart is beating like it’s trying to break out of my chest. Am I going to be scrambling to get my first at-bat as a sub in the fourth inning, or am I going to be digging in, nice and easy, in the first or second?

And of course, Coach makes us wait. He’s been using this one thing, this one little word to make us bust our butts. He’s made everyone think they have a shot. So I guess he feels like he has to announce it in some special way. What he does is line us up on the field.

You know how every position has a number when you’re scoring the game, like pitcher is number one? He goes in that order, scorecard order. Left field isn’t until number seven.

So we’re standing there, all in a line in front of the bleachers. It’s kind of a gray day. Right before Coach starts talking, a big gust of wind blows in from the side, and we all grab our caps so they don’t blow off.

I take a breath and nod over at Geoff. We have a long wait, and it’s like no hard feelings, either way. He nods back. I like Geoff, it’s just that he’s the competition.

“One!” says Coach. We don’t really need to wait for him to call out J.P.’s name, but we all do anyway. Even J.P. stands there like he’s waiting in line at the caf, like he has no idea anything is going to happen.

“Get out there, Walters,” Wainwright says. J.P. jogs out to the mound, nice and easy, like it’s for a fielding drill or something. Man, to be that good, just for one day … A few spots down, Malfoy deflates. The look on his face is somewhere between disappointment and stomach pain. He really thought he had a shot. I can’t blame him for wanting it. He’s been playing as long as I have. This year means the same thing to him.

“Two,” Coach says. “You know the spot, Cuddy.”

Not much drama there, either. Good catchers are as rare as plutonium in Little League. Dustin sprints over and stands behind the plate.

“Three, Jackson,” says Coach, and Jackson makes the short trip to first base. No surprises so far, but there’s no clear front-runner for the next spot. One kid will be surprised, and one kid will be disappointed.

“Four,” says Coach, and I elbow Andy in the side.

“Let’s go, Timmaaaay!” he says under his breath.

“Liu,” says Coach. “Get out there.”

“Yessss!” Andy and I whisper.

One of the younger kids gives us a look, but we don’t care. We low-five. This is no offense to Evan, not at all, but he’s still got another year, and Timmy’s our friend.

“Five,” says Coach.

I hear Andy take a quick, sharp breath next to me. I hold my breath, too.

“Don’t make me look bad, Rossiter,” Coach says.

Sweeeeeeeeeeeeeet!

Andy jogs out to third without looking back. It’s rude to look back: You might see the guy you beat out. That’s Chester, but he’s a good sport about it. He just doesn’t have a big enough arm for that long throw across the diamond. (Of course, nothing about Chester is all that big.) He’s going to end up second string at both spots on the left side of the infield, because he won’t beat out Katie at short, either. He’ll still get plenty of playing time and at-bats, though. He’s our supersub.

I don’t hear Coach call Katie’s name, because right about then, my heart climbs into my head and starts pounding there, too. One more until left field.

I see Katie jog out to short, her ponytail flicking left-right, left-right.

B-dum! B-dum! B-dum! My heart is pounding so hard I wonder if I’ll even hear Coach announce it.

“Seven,” he says.

B-DUM! B-DUM! B-DUM!

“Mogens.”

That’s me. That’s me!