The panic passes after a few more kicks to the tree. Mom is probably still watching, but it doesn’t matter. This is what I’d be doing anyway. This tree takes a beating sometimes.

The solution falls right in front of me like I shook loose an acorn. I’ll just have to tell them. No need to over-think this: I’ll just tell them I don’t want to go.

And that’s what I do. I take a few fake practice swings in the yard and then storm into the house. “Can’t do it,” I announce to the empty living room. “Wrist is really … can’t swing … hurts.”

It’s just as well they weren’t there for that one. I take a deep breath and try again in the kitchen. This time, I have an audience. I tell them I can’t play and wait for it.

“Well, I guess we don’t have to get there so early,” says Dad.

“Sure you don’t want to see the doctor?” says Mom.

“No, I don’t want to go,” I say.

“All right,” says Mom. “But I want to take a look at it once the tape is off.”

It’s like every problem turns into two problems with this. I take a breath. I just have to deal with one at a time.

“To the game, I mean,” I say. “I don’t want to go to the game.”

“You always go to the game, sport,” says Dad.

“I think, you know, hon, I think we want to go to the game,” says Mom. “And I think you should come, too.”

I’m sort of caught in the cross fire, but I dig in my heels. I’m like Nax trying to avoid going to the vet’s, if Nax could talk. It’s basically just: I don’t wanna go, I don’t wanna go, I don’t wanna go. I don’t want to go and sit in the bleachers.

All of that is true, which makes it easier.

I do everything short of chaining myself to a water pipe. Dad is smart, though. I mean, Mom and Dad are both smart, but Dad is suspicious.

“This doesn’t, uh…” Dad starts. “This doesn’t have anything to do with last week?”

It stings, especially because it’s true.

“No,” I say. “Nuh-uh. Course not.”

So one more lie creeps in there. Then I start all over again, like a recording: I don’t wanna go, I don’t wanna go, I don’t wanna go. I don’t want to go and sit in the bleachers.

Finally, I must say something that clicks with Dad. He turns to Mom and says, “He doesn’t want to sit and watch. He’s a competitor.”

That stings, too, and not because it’s true. All I can tell myself is: I used to be.

“He’s just upset,” Mom says finally. She says it to Dad, but she’s looking at me. Or maybe she’s talking to me and she means that Dad’s upset, which he is.

“Me, too,” I say, and I head upstairs.

I want to scream or break something or at least, you know, kill a bunch of soldiers in Grunt Front. But I have one more thing to do first. I get out the team contact list and call Coach’s cell phone.

It goes to voice mail, like I knew it would this close to a game. Just hearing his voice for three seconds on the message makes me feel like I’m in trouble. But it also reminds me of those at-bats, of him saying “pinch-runner,” and I guess that gives me what I need to get it done.

I keep it vague: “Family emergency … Pretty bad … Sorry…” If he needs more, he can ask. And he won’t really care about my excuse after this because, I mean, that’s it, right? I have to quit now. How do you go back after something like this? I guess this is what I wanted. I guess, because it’s what I just did.

I put the list back in the drawer without looking at it. I don’t want to see the names. Then I just lie down on the bed, completely motionless. I look up at the ceiling, and my face feels hot enough to melt the paint above me.

After a while, I look over at my alarm clock. They’re warming up now. A little while later, I look again: must be the first inning, maybe the second. I can picture the infield, all the way around: Jackson at first, Tim at second, Katie at short, and Andy at third. Behind them, looking in, it’s Geoff.

I just lie there until I’m pretty sure the game is over. I don’t get to do anything while they’re playing. Once enough time has passed, I get up and kill some soldiers.

By the time I clear the next level, I already have three e-mails. I check my cell, which is on silent: two texts and a voice mail. I can’t answer them yet. But I’ll have to do it soon. Otherwise, they’ll start calling the house.

I start the next level, and I’m running from tanks and looking for an RPG in the rubble. I have got to stop using up all my grenades so quickly, but I’ll have plenty of time to work on that.

In the afternoon, I send seven short texts: “Sorry! Fam. emergency!!!” times six, and “Call U tomorrow!!!” to Andy.

That night I go to bed earlier than I have in years. Nax climbs aboard and curls up at the foot of my bed. He’s not supposed to, but I let him. He knows something is wrong.

I lie there and tell him the whole thing. It’s too early to sleep, anyway. I talk low, but dogs have superhearing, right?

I’m talking for a long time. Whenever I stop, Nax looks back at me and lets out a little woof. He thinks it’s a game, a talking game. And so I end up telling him everything, about baseballs and bad dreams and ACE bandages. Hope he’s not wearing a wire.

Finally, I tell him how I have to quit now, because I let everyone down and I’m useless and told different stories to different people, anyway. I don’t say how I painted myself into this corner because I’m still so afraid of the ball that I just want out.

“It’s really the only thing I have left,” I tell my dog. “Stick a fork in me.”

It’s quiet when I finish, then Nax lets out one more soft bark. He thinks we’re still playing the game. Ruff, he says.

I scratch his head.

“You got that right,” I say.