BP starts like it always does: Everyone out in the field. I grab the glove that I just put down a few minutes ago and head out to join the crowd in left. It’s the place to be because it’s where most of the balls are hit. This I can do.

Coach looks around and calls you in for your turn. No one’s ever sure how he comes up with the order. It seems kind of random, and I guess maybe that’s the point. If all the best hitters went first, then the last kids to go would know they sucked, instead of just suspecting it.

Anyway, Jackson is first up. He’s a right-handed pull hitter, and he usually puts on a show, so I pound my fist into my glove and get ready. Coach Liu is pitching to give Wainwright a break after hitting all those balls.

Coach Liu’s pitches are a little flatter and straighter than Coach’s lollipops.

Harder, too. It just pops into my brain. I want to make a catch right now, to chase down a fly ball slicing toward the line. I just want to do something to not think so much, but Jackson is waiting on the pitches like he should. He’s driving them more toward center. His third shot clears the fence, and everyone hoots and whoops.

I watch Jackson: how relaxed he looks, how easy his swing is. He cranks a few more, and Coach has seen enough. He calls in one of the new kids. Good luck following that. He doesn’t come close, but he gives the infield a workout, which is probably what Coach is looking for.

J.P. goes next, and his power seems to be down a little. He’s working on making contact. Wayne is up next. He’s Malfoy’s friend and Andy’s competition at third, so: double evil. Then it’s Katie: double good. She hits one right to me, and I pretend she meant to. I smile for the first time all day, and then I hear my name.

The smile is gone and the nerves are back. I put my head down and jog in. Mind over matter, that’s what Dad would say: I don’t mind and you don’t matter. My body will do what I tell it to. I hope.

The helmet slips on. It’s not the one I usually wear, because that’s the one I got hit in. And I guess it did its job, but I don’t even want to look at it right now. The new one fits OK, and I barely feel it as it slides over the bruise.

I put on my batting glove and pick up the bat I like. Katie takes her last swing, and I’m up. Everything feels fast and out of control. It’s not until the first pitch is coming in that I realize I didn’t go through my routine.

The pitch is outside. Thank God. I reach out and bounce it to one of the extra infielders on the right side. Lame. Then the next pitch comes in on me. It’s maybe an inch or two inside, but it’s the kind of pitch that would be called a strike nine times out of ten. I just need to keep my arms in, but I don’t keep anything in.

The pitch has a little tailing action, and in my head it seems like it’s coming straight for me. I jump back out of the way, and the thing misses me by two feet.

“What was that?” Liu shouts from the mound.

“Nothing,” I say. “Got fooled.”

Yeah, fooled by a flat BP fastball. That’s believable.

Liu gives me a weird look, winds up, and tosses another.

This one is right down the middle, and I handle it a little better.

The next one is outside, and I hit a solid liner. It gets caught by one of the extra fielders, but it probably would’ve been a base hit in a normal game. I start to feel a little better. I even take my little mini swings before the next pitch. And then Liu comes inside. Not much, but it’s enough.

I bail out completely, sticking my bat out toward the plate as I throw my shoulders back out and away from it. The ball just doinks off the end.

I look up, and I realize something: Coach Liu knows. He saw me jump off the plate on a pitch just inside. Then he went middle, then away, and watched me put two decent swings on the ball. Then he came back in.

Just to make sure, he comes in again. I don’t even offer at it. I take a good, hittable pitch in batting practice. Right now, I’d give anything for that weak chopper I hit on the first pitch, the one I thought was so lame. I can’t believe this. I’m bailing out on everything inside.

“What is going on, Mogens?” yells Coach Wainwright from the side of the cage.

“Nothing, Coach,” I say.

“Yeah,” he says. “That pretty well sums it up.”

He calls Manny in to bat next.

I slink back out into the field. If Coach hasn’t figured it out already, Liu will let him know what’s up afterward.

Manny doesn’t make eye contact. He looks down as we pass each other. He’s embarrassed for me. I trade my batting glove for my real one. And the worst part: I’m glad it’s over. I should be dying for another swing, but I’m not. I head out to left, and no one says anything to me as I go.

I hear someone laughing off in the distance. I don’t need to look up to know that it’s Malfoy.

I try to settle myself down in the field. A few batters later, Chester hits one in the air. It’s practically a home run for him, but really, it’s a blooper to shallow left. It’s dropping fast, right in front of me. I should stay back and play this one on the hop. That’s the smart thing to do, but I’m still burning with embarrassment. This seems like just what I need.

I break into a flat-out sprint. Maybe I can make this catch. Maybe the coaches can talk about that after practice, about my glove. Maybe I can make Malfoy swallow some of that laughter. There’s no way he’d make this catch.

I’m running as fast as I can, starting to lean forward and get low as I go. My hat flies backward off my head. The ball is sinking fast. I’m almost there. Everything is converging: the ball, the grass, my glove….

I dive for it.

I miss.