I’m at practice on Thursday. A few weeks ago, that would have been like saying, “The sun came up this morning,” but now it really means something. I feel like I’m sort of back in that rhythm, at least a little bit. One other thing: It’s my last chance to get my starting spot back before this week’s game.

We start out in the field, throwing baseballs into the big garbage can. It’s a little awkward because there are too many of us in the field, and so, of course, Geoff and I both run straight out to left. There’s a younger kid out there between us, but we tell him to get lost, and he gets lost all the way to right.

Then it’s just the two of us. Geoff is shaded toward center, and I’m over toward the line. We’re splitting the difference, ten feet apart. Neither of us says anything, but we know the deal. Anything hit to my right is mine, and anything hit to his left is his. Anything in between will be like three question marks in a row.

Coach Liu starts hitting fungoes. First he hits some choppers to the infield. I just watch. You can really see the difference between our best players and the rest of the kids crowding the infield.

Coach Liu hits one toward short, and two kids hesitate for a second and then charge toward it. They practically collide when they get there, but one of them manages to knock it down with his thigh. He picks it up and chucks it in the general direction of home plate. Coach Liu is standing off to the side of the barrel, but he still has to skip out of the way to avoid being hit in the shins.

He hits the next one to the same place. Maybe he’s giving those two another chance to get it right. More likely, he wants them to see how it’s done. Katie does her part. The other two hesitate again, leaning back and trying to figure out where and how the ball will bounce. But Katie charges forward as soon as it’s hit. She cuts right between them, scoops it up on the short hop, and fires a one-hopper into the square plastic mouth of the can.

She turns around and jogs back, her hat down low and her mouth working some gum. She doesn’t say anything to the other two, but her glove just said: What are you doing in my spot? One shades over toward second, the other takes a few steps closer to third.

Then Coach Liu starts lifting fly balls to the outfield. The first few go to center. I reach up to adjust my cap and reach down to smack my glove once.

The first shot to left isn’t to me. Almost as soon as it’s hit, I can tell it’s heading toward Geoff’s side of the field. The extra kid in center starts running for it, too.

“I got it,” shouts Geoff. “Mine.”

The other kid backs off, and Geoff makes a clean catch. It’s a little unusual, because normally the center fielder makes the call, but that kid isn’t really the center fielder. He’s just the other guy standing there. Manny doesn’t mind the company. His spot is secure, and he gets to do plenty of running out there in games. Geoff’s throw to the cutoff man is right on target.

A little while later, one comes to my side. It’s high and short, an easy play all around. I glove it and then have a short throw to Andy, who has his arms up as the cutoff man. It’s almost short enough to try to make the throw home myself. But Andy is in a perfect position and has that accurate infielder’s arm.

I make a quick short throw to him as Coach Liu is turning the mouth of the barrel down the third-base line. Andy spins and buries the ball in there on the fly.

It was the right decision, but I jog back to my spot second-guessing myself anyway. It would’ve been more impressive if I’d delivered a long throw myself. I’m not the starter. I need to win the position. Then again, I don’t want another one of those dive-for-it moments.

After that, and I swear Liu does this on purpose: He hits one right in between Geoff and me. And so of course we both end up calling each other off.

“I got it.”

“I got it!”

“Got it.”

“Got it!”

“Mine.”

“Mine!”

But it’s a little closer to Geoff, and I let him have it. Again: right decision. Again: I second-guess it.

We do some more drills, and I do OK. What can I do? They’re just drills. The best you can do is do them right. I do, and so does Geoff. So, basically, he wins.

Malfoy is slinking around practice all day, but he doesn’t say anything to me, and I definitely don’t say anything to him.

And then it’s time for live pitching. J.P. will probably face half a dozen of us, and there’s no guarantee that I’ll be one of them. I got a hit off of him last time, though. I’m hoping that will be reason enough to give me another shot. Man, I think back to that day. Everything was just good then. I had no idea I’d be standing out here now, desperately needing to cash in that single for one more shot.

Instead, Coach calls Geoff in. I run out to take his spot in left before anyone else does. Then I stand there not really knowing what to think. I don’t want to root against him. He’s my teammate and a good guy. None of this is his fault.

I root against him anyway. What? J.P. is my teammate, too.

At least I have enough class not to react when he strikes out. Coach gives him another shot, and he grounds out. He hits it sharply but right to Jackson. J.P. busts it off the mound to cover first, but Jackson takes it himself. He jogs over and easily beats Geoff to the bag.

I’m still concentrating on not smiling when Coach shouts, “Mogens, get in here!”

Yes! He remembered.

It’s not till I’m in the on-deck circle timing J.P. that the flip side of that occurs to me. If Coach remembers my hit last time, you can bet J.P. does, too. The next fastball comes in crazy fast, and my pulse revs up another gear.

Dustin is down to the last strike of his second at-bat. I take my right hand off the bat and shake it out to stay loose. I hold it flat and see what I already knew: It’s shaking. I put it back on the bat before anyone else can see.

Then Dustin strikes out swinging, and I’m up. My hand is shaking and my pulse is racing. So, of course, J.P. buries the first pitch way inside. The ball doesn’t hit me, but an explosion goes off inside me anyway. All I can do is try to concentrate. The next one is inside, too. It’s borderline, but Coach gives it to him.

I knew this would happen. Everyone will pitch me this way until I prove I can hit it. And one thing’s for sure: I won’t get a hit if I don’t swing. I make up my mind to swing at the next pitch, no matter what.

I swing over a pitch in the dirt. J.P. is thinking right along with me. Just like that, I’m behind in the count, 1–2. Now I know how the guy in my back pocket must’ve felt, right before they rolled Chuck’s Wagon out of the big leagues.

The next pitch is inside again. I don’t swing, and Coach gives me the call this time: 2–2.

“Knock off the junk!” Andy shouts from third.

J.P. looks over at him for a long second. Andy just pounds his glove and looks back at him.

It’s so unusual to have the third baseman yell at his own pitcher that Coach makes a noise behind the plate. It’s the kind of noise Nax makes in his sleep. I take the opportunity to go through my routine, nice and slow, but I still have some time. J.P. shakes his head, looks in, and goes into his windup.

What the heck, I think, everyone else is talking around here. “Sometimes you squash the bug,” I say under my breath.

The pitch comes in, inside but definitely a strike. I put a swing on it and hit a sharp grounder to first. Jackson takes it himself.

Coach doesn’t give me another at-bat. I’m glad I put a decent swing on the ball, and maybe he is, too, but we both know I’ll be starting Saturday on the bench. I just have to be ready, I tell myself as I put the bat back in the rack. I just have to be ready.