“You sure your wrist is OK for this?” Dad says as he drops me off for practice on Tuesday. He doesn’t usually drop me off, but he is working from home again. His office calls them flex days, and they’re to save on commuting costs because a lot of people drive a long way to get there. I wish we had flex days at school.

“What?” I say.

I remember, and I’m about to start digging myself out of the hole I just fell into, but when I look over, he has a half smile on his face.

“Yeah,” I say. I can’t help but smile, too. I want to ask him how long he’s known, if he bought my story for even a second. But I don’t. This is one of those things you don’t talk about. He knows, and I know he knows. That’s enough. I still lied to my parents. Boy, did I. Best to let a thing like that drop.

“Fit as a fiddle,” I say as I open the door. I know he likes that one, so it’s like my way of saying thanks.

And then I make my way across the field, and all I have to deal with is the team I let down on Saturday. I feel nervous and kind of weirdly shy. I need a baseball, like, now.

“Toss it here,” I say.

“Who? What? Me?” says Morgan.

“No, your mother,” I say, and OK, maybe it’s cheating to warm up with a fifth grader instead of Dustin, who’s right behind him. I’m just not up to the team captain today, and Andy’s not here yet.

Morgan throws me the ball, and we spread out for some long toss. He doesn’t talk much, which is fine with me. I keep an eye on Coach the whole time. As I do, I see other eyes watching me.

Finally, Coach finishes taping up Tim’s ankle. Tim is a big believer in the power of tape, and he must’ve gotten dinged up in the game.

Coach stands up and heads toward the field. His eyes lock on me right away.

“Hold it,” I say, tossing the ball to Morgan. I swallow some spit and head toward my death. I’m trying to figure out what to say, or at least how to start: “Listen, Coach” or “OK, so the thing is…” But I don’t even get the chance.

When he’s still six feet away from me, he says, “You ready, Mogens?”

“Yeah,” I manage.

“Good,” he says, and keeps walking.

That’s it? It doesn’t make any sense. I just got a free pass from my dad and my coach, not ten minutes apart. And then I realize: He knows, too. Not about the tape and the excuses and all that, but he knows I skipped the game, and he knows why.

I remember the last thing he said to me: “It’s been a pretty rough stretch for you; better catch a breather.” I just thought he was talking about starting the game on the bench. That’s what everyone thought. But now, I mean, it’s almost like he knew.

I start to turn around. Some breather, I’m thinking. And that’s when Andy punches me in the arm again. “Hey, dingus,” he says.

“Aaaaaa,” I say. “Same spot.”

“Got a ball?” he says.

I point to Morgan, who’s standing there watching us.

Andy gives me a look, like: Why are you warming up with this kid?

I give him a shrug, like: Whatever, he’s cool.

Then Andy holds up his glove. “Throw me the ball, little dingus,” he calls to Morgan.

A few minutes later, practice starts. Practice starts, and I’m still on the team. I’m not a starter anymore, but I mean, that’s what I’m here for, right? “Three of you thrown out on the bases, two at the plate,” Coach is saying. “I have never been so sick in my entire life. Never before has the game of baseball filled me with such a powerful urge to puke my guts out. To puke my considerable guts out.”

It’s hard not to smile when Coach says things like that, but he would go ballistic if any of us smiled right now, so we bite our lips and do our best.

“I have no idea how we won that game,” he continues. “But we won’t win another one with base-running like that. What we need is a dictionary. Does anyone have a dictionary so we can look up the word slide?”

I know what’s coming. I have never, in all my time on a baseball field — in all my considerable time on a baseball field — been so happy to do the lawsuit drill.

I’m going to have to bat today. I know that. I’m just glad I don’t have to start with it. I sprint over to get near the front of the line. I’m right behind Katie. I swear it’s a coincidence, mostly. I pull my hat down low so no one can see where my eyes are. There are all kinds of reasons to be glad I’m still on the team.

Then I reach down and button the back pocket of my practice pants. I’m going to be sliding, and I wouldn’t want the card to come out, even if it is junk.