We’re in the field to start things off. I wave to Mom and Dad once — just once, I swear — and then look in toward the plate. J.P. is finishing up his warm-up throws. He’s just getting going, but I can hear the ball hitting the mitt clearly all the way in left. I wonder what it sounds like to the kids on the Haven bench.

They’d all know his name, of course. Walters, they’d be saying. That’s J.P. Walters. The new kids on the team would be trying not to stare. It’s true what they say: A really good pitcher, a real ace, has a strike on the hitters before they even step to the plate.

Anyway, we’re the home team. It’s kind of funny because this isn’t our home field. It isn’t where we practice, anyway. Culbreath Field is kind of a dump when it comes right down to it. “Not suitable for entertaining,” Coach always says.

It’s sort of a disappointment because it’s a dump, but it’s our dump. It would be nice to play on the same field you practice on. As it is, it’s sort of like an away game for us, too.

Pop! I hear J.P.’s last warm-up toss. That makes me feel at home, at least.

“Look alive!” Coach shouts out to us. Then he gets Malfoy’s attention and waves him a little deeper back. Their first batter is a lefty, so he’s more likely to hit it to right. But he strikes out on four pitches, all fastballs. Lefty-righty matchups don’t mean much to J.P.

Their second batter draws a walk, though. You can see J.P. doesn’t like a few of the calls. Maybe he’s a little shaken up or afraid the umpire is “squeezing the strike zone” on him. They did that a lot last year, too, just because he’s so good.

Anyway, he grooves the first pitch to the next batter right down the middle, looking for strike one. This is their number three hitter, so one of their best. He puts a good swing on it and hits a hot shot to Andy at third. Andy tries to field it on one hop, but it kind of eats him up and he doesn’t field it cleanly. By the time he gets it, he has to make a really strong throw just to get the runner at first.

So, there are two outs, but there’s a runner in scoring position at second.

Their cleanup hitter is up next. It’s their big pitcher. He’s first-pitch swinging, looking for another one in the center of the plate. But J.P. is smart and throws a fastball up in the zone.

The kid, his name is Tebow, gets underneath it and hits a high pop-up in my direction. I try to get a bead on it, but it keeps carrying. I start backpedaling underneath it, slowly at first and then faster.

I start thinking about the fence, somewhere behind me but coming up fast. I can’t turn around to see, or I’ll lose track of the ball. If I hit the fence, I hit the fence, I tell myself. But my brain can’t quite let it go. I’m backpedaling fast, and hitting the fence would be a train wreck.

The ball is coming down now. There’s no sound at a moment like that, just your eyes, your glove, and the ball. Three more quick steps back, and it slaps into my glove for out number three.

“There ya go, Mogens!” someone calls.

I look in and realize it’s Geoff. Kind of a classy move, right?

Before I jog in to our bench, I turn around to check. The fence is maybe three feet behind me. This field is nice, but it needs a warning track. Andy waits for me at third, and we jog in together.

“Nice throw,” I say.

“Nice catch,” he says, and slaps me on the arm with his glove.

“Man,” I say, “that big dude was fooled on the pitch and almost hit it out!”

“Yeah,” says Andy. “Serious power. And now we have to try to get a hit off him.”

“Great,” I say. “Just great.”