And then I catch a break.

It’s been so long since I’ve seen one, I barely recognize it. I’m on the bus Monday morning, sort of on autopilot. The torn-off tape wrap is stuffed in my backpack, even though Saturday morning seems like a million years ago already.

Zeb is already sitting with someone, and I don’t want to sit with him anyway. I still don’t know who won the game, and if it was the Rockies, I don’t want to find out from him. I don’t want to find that out from anyone.

So I’m sitting with a spastic fourth grader, who is, honest to God, burping loudly. I expect him to vomit on me before we make it to school, and it’s like, yep, this is my life.

And then a kid named Morgan one seat up turns around and looks at me.

“Where were you?” he says.

Morgan is a year below me but a year ahead of Sir Burps-a-lot here, so it’s a step up. He doesn’t play much — he’s like a physical extension of the bench — but he never misses a practice.

“Family emergency,” I say. He doesn’t look satisfied with that, which he shouldn’t, because it’s lame. But he can’t call me on it because he’s younger. He’s about to turn around. I take a deep breath and do what my dad would call “biting the bullet.” You know: getting it over with.

“How’d it go?” I say.

“What?” he says.

“The game? We win?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he says. “Barely.”

He turns around to see where Zeb and those guys are. Then he turns back. He isn’t whispering, because the rumble of the bus is too loud for that, but he’s, you know, bus-whispering.

“I don’t think the Rox are that good this year,” he continues, making a goofy face to show how non-good he thinks they are. “I mean, even I got a hit, right?”

I’m about to congratulate him, but he’s still talking.

“But it was” — he looks around again — “Meacham. Kurt, not Coach.”

He means Malfoy, but younger kids can’t call him that.

“What about him?”

Morgan looks around again, so I can tell whatever it is must be really good.

I look over at the fourth grader. He’s picking his nose.

“Hey, booger,” I say, and nod toward Morgan. “Swap seats.”

Booger looks at me for a second, a small boulder of snot still impaled on his index finger. I look him in the eye.

“OK,” he says.

He’s scared of me. I’m going to miss being a jock.

He wipes the snot on his jeans and scoots by. I try not to let any part of him touch me. Then I shove over toward the window, and Morgan lands on the end of the seat.

“Siddown back there!” calls the bus driver, but we’re already, you know, sidding.

“OK, so…” I say.

Morgan leans in: “OK, OK. He got slammed!”

“Malfoy?” I say.

“Yeah,” he hesitates, “Malfoy.” Then he repeats it, “Malfoy.”

“Like how, ‘slammed’?” I say.

“Didn’t make it out of the third!”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously! Gave up, like” — he starts ticking off with his fingers — “five runs!”

And the way he says that, I can just tell: “You don’t like him either.”

“Nah,” he says. You can tell there’s more to that story, but I’m still stuck on the last part. I was right! I mean, I was kind of joking when I said it, when Malfoy overheard me, but I was still right!

“Who’d Coach bring in?” I say, getting greedy.

“Dustin,” he says.

OK, so I wasn’t right about that part.

“But that’s not it. That’s not, like, even the main thing!”

“What? What’s the main thing?”

“Kurt — Malfoy — he lost it!”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously!”

“Lost it how?”

“He hit two batters! Both late! You know what I mean? I mean…” But I know what he means.

“In the third?”

“Yeah! We’re already down five to zippo, right? So the last thing we need is more base runners, but he drills two guys, one after the other. And the first guy, OK, maybe it’s an accident — even though he hit a triple off him in the first. But the second? Coach had to go get him before it got out of hand. But it almost did anyway.”

“Whoa!” I say, because there are so many things shooting through my mind right now. There’s fear because, you know, I’ve been there. Boy, have I. But there’s also satisfaction because I was right, and a half-dozen other things.

I guess I get lost in space for a while because, next thing I know, Morgan is going, “Jack? Jack?”

“Yeah,” I say, snapping out of it.

Neither of us says anything for a few seconds.

“Should I go back to my seat?” he says.

“What? No,” I say. “So, we’re down five-nothing, runners on, and Coach brings in Dustin?”

“Yeah, yeah,” says Morgan. “You know, he’s got a pretty good fastball, so…”

And he goes from there, telling me how Dustin got out of the jam and the team climbed out of a 5–0 hole.

As he’s talking, I realize that I’ve just been let off the hook. Or at least I’ve been bumped up to the tip where I might be able to wriggle off. Kids are going to be talking about baseball all day, but they won’t be talking about me. Let’s just be honest here: A family emergency, even a real one, isn’t half as interesting as a full-fledged pitching meltdown.

Malfoy … Huh … looks like my former friend did me one last favor after all.

This is the week I was going to have to either quit the team or get back into the batter’s box. And this is the day I was going to have to quit or lie to the face of everyone I know. Now I’m thinking, I don’t have to quit today.

And then it occurs to me as I’m filing down the aisle of the bus, heading for the door. Morgan is still chattering behind me, and Zeb is avoiding my eyes, and it just pops in there: Do I even have to quit at all?