“Cuddy, Jiménez, Mogens,” says Coach. “We’ll start off with you three. Grab a bat.”

So right away, I’m in the hole, up third, and Geoff just jogs out to left without anyone needing to say anything. It doesn’t settle who’s going to get the start on Saturday, but I guess maybe that’s the point.

Anyway, this is Three Bears batting. Coach does this a lot. Dustin is big, the papa bear, a power hitter. Chester is little, the baby bear. And I guess that makes me just right. We’ll find out. I can already feel the churning in my stomach.

There are just too many things to try not to think about: getting hit on Saturday, lying there with tears in my eyes, going to the hospital. Getting humiliated at BP on Tuesday. The last one sneaks up on me: The last time I faced Malfoy, he knocked me down. I can literally feel my pulse shift gears when I remember that, him pumping his fist and glaring in at me.

I try to talk to Chester, just to distract myself, but he’s not having it. He’s on deck and focused. Like I should be. I wander back to the pile of batting helmets and poke through it. I’m hoping there’s one that covers my whole body.

Dustin steps to the plate, and I get a spot off to the side to try to time up Malfoy’s pitches.

It’s another nice evening, pretty warm, just a little wind. Malfoy is throwing easy, getting nice velocity. Dustin takes a few pitches, and it’s one ball, one strike. Malfoy paints the outside corner to pull ahead in the count.

The outside corner, I think. Maybe he’ll stay away. But that’s just how you pitch to Dustin. He’s a dead pull hitter and can turn on inside pitches like you wouldn’t believe. Everyone knows to pitch him outside, and it occurs to me right then that I must be getting the opposite reputation.

Does everyone already know to pitch me inside? Half this team pitches or wants to, and it’s the kind of thing we keep track of. It’s weird; you think that what’s going on with your swing is your business. Meanwhile, you’ve got a dozen kids watching you every time you pick up a bat.

Dustin is protecting the plate on the 1–2 pitch and swings at some junk. He chops it weakly to Katie, who guns him down by five steps.

Chester steps in and scrunches himself up. Malfoy looks in at that mini strike zone, but his expression doesn’t change at all. Like I said, he’s throwing easy today.

It’s a long at-bat. My heart is racing the whole time. It doesn’t seem possible that it could beat any faster and still be inside my chest. My hands are sweating so bad that I take off my batting glove, just so it doesn’t turn into a water balloon.

I stuff the wrist end inside the waist of my practice pants and take a few light swings bare-handed. It feels wrong.

The count has been full for two pitches now. Malfoy is hitting the zone by taking a little off his fastball, daring Chester to make contact, but all Chester has managed to do so far is foul it off.

But Chester is getting comfortable now. He’s figured out what Malfoy’s doing, and there’s a little smile on his face. He’s going to wait on this next one. It’s a mistake. Malfoy winds up big and launches one, blazing fast.

It’s probably not a strike, but Chester is surprised by the velocity and doesn’t do the math. He’s way too late with a just-in-case hack and strikes out swinging.

Now I’m up. I’m fried. I feel like I do after a tough out, head down and beaten up, even though I haven’t taken a single swing yet. I should have a white flag tied to the end of my bat.

Dustin has his catcher’s gear on now and heads to the plate with me: me to hit (or not) and him to catch.

“Dude,” he says. “Your glove.”

I don’t know what he means for a second. It’s like I can barely hear him over the sound of the blood hammering in my head. Then I remember and look down. The fingers of my red and white batting glove are poking out of my pants, waving at me as I walk.

I barely have time to put it on before Malfoy goes into his windup. I don’t even have time for one mini swing. He’s coming right at me.

The first pitch is on the inside half. It’s not way inside, but it still locks me up. I pick up the angle, the little cut inward, and I flinch. It’s not much, but it’s enough to ruin my balance. As a batter, you want to be like a cocked gun up there. That little flinch, it takes that away. And because the pitch still had plenty of the plate, it’s an easy strike.

The second pitch is a rocket, and it’s even farther inside. Malfoy has figured out the inside thing, just like Coach Liu. He was in right field for that and had a great view. And he knows me. He has for years. The only thing that keeps me from jumping back out of the box is the burning memory of how sick I felt after doing just that on Tuesday. But all I can do is stand there. I am officially locked up.

Coach calls it a ball, and Dustin says, “Good eye,” to me under his breath.

Good eye, my butt: My eyes were closed. It’s 1–1.

I shake my head and shoulders, just to reset, and look out at the mound. Malfoy is working fast, already in his windup.

This one is way inside. I close my eyes again. I can feel the sweat inside my batting glove as I hear the ball pop into Dustin’s mitt.

“Come on,” yells someone in the field. And it’s true: I’m not up there to test Malfoy’s control. That was Chester’s job. I’m up there to make contact, maybe hit a line drive. I used to be good at that. But here I am, a total statue, ahead in the count 2–1.

It doesn’t make any sense. He could’ve struck me out by now. I look out to the mound a little earlier this time. I catch Malfoy’s eyes. I see what’s in them, and then I know. He’s not trying to get me out. He’s trying to punish me.

He goes into his windup, and I hold my breath because I know what’s coming. I won’t do it, though. Not again, and not now. I won’t end another at-bat in the dirt.

The pitch comes in. It’s a nasty snake of a fastball, hissing as it twists in toward me. The last thing that flashes through my mind is a single phrase, said just a little too loudly in the hallway after lunch.

I don’t close my eyes this time. Why bother. I tilt my head back and look up at the gray sky as the ball drills me in the ribs.

That’s it. I’m done. I’m never doing this again.

And then I drop to my knees. I’ve been taken apart, piece by piece.