Run!”
The shout from the first-base coach was unnecessary. Liam had anticipated the collision between Malden’s pitcher and shortstop a split second before it happened. He’d already taken off when the two collapsed into a heap, the baseball rolling away from them in the grass.
Now he was thirty feet from second and picking up speed. The pitcher and shortstop untangled themselves and jumped up. Liam was twenty feet away when the player covering the bag started yelling for the ball. Ten feet when the shortstop scrambled forward to get it. Five feet when he picked it up. Three feet when he tossed it to second.
Liam hit the dirt. But instead of sliding straight, he aimed his outstretched foot away from the bag and reached to touch the base with his left hand. When the Malden player swept his glove down for the tag, Liam instinctively yanked his hand away—and then flipped over to slap the bag with his right!
“Safe!” the umpire cried.
The fans went crazy—and their cheers grew louder when Matt, making the most of the catching error, crossed home plate. Ravenna 3, Malden 2.
“Okay, Carmen, sweeten that lead for us!” Liam heard Sean yell above the din of the crowd.
But Carmen grounded out.
Liam jogged off second base. He was happy to have helped the team leapfrog ahead of Malden, but he would have been happier if the gap were wider.
It was the top of the sixth inning, Malden’s last chance to score. With the Sectional title on the line, the batters would no doubt be giving one hundred and ten percent.
So we’ll have to give one hundred and twenty, he thought as he suited up in his catcher’s gear. Or even better—
“Hey, Liam.”
Liam looked up to see Phillip standing beside him.
“I just had a great idea,” the pitcher said. “How about we win this tourney here and now by sending Malden’s batters packing one”—Phillip touched a finger to his chest—“two”—he brushed that same finger against the tip of his nose—“three.” He pointed at Liam.
Liam stared at Phillip. Then he broke into a slow smile.
To most anyone else, the chest-nose-point gesture would have been meaningless. To Liam, it symbolized the heart of their rocky relationship.
He’d used it on Phillip first and as a prank—sort of. At last year’s World Series, Liam had learned about the practical joke Phillip had played on Carter during baseball camp. When Liam encountered Phillip shortly afterward, he’d decided to return the favor with a trick of his own. He pointed to a nonexistent stain on Phillip’s shirt. When Phillip automatically looked down to see the stain for himself, Liam jerked his finger up and bopped him in the nose, crowing, “Made you look!”
Phillip had the last laugh, however. After he struck Liam out, he leaned over Liam, imitated the nose-bop, and whispered, “Made you whiff!”
He’d repeated the gesture throughout the regular season, whenever he and Liam faced each other on the field. Seeing it always made Liam’s blood boil, for he knew it was meant to remind him of his humiliating strikeout and therefore to undermine his confidence.
But he knew that wasn’t Phillip’s intention now. Now, Phillip was using the gesture to forge a new bond between them—a bond of trust.
Liam stood up. Still smiling, he pointed to his own chest, then his nose, and then pointed at Phillip. “One. Two. Three,” he said in sync with each movement. “Sounds good to me. Let’s do it.”
Then he curled his finger back and held out his fist. Phillip did the same. “One, two, three,” they said together as they bumped knuckles.
Agreeing to put the batters down in order was one thing; actually doing it was another. And yet Liam felt more confident than he had all game. Phillip appeared more determined, too.
Zip! Swish! Thud! Zip! Swish! Thud! Zip! Swish! Thud! Three screaming fastballs translated into three strikes and out number one.
“Two to go, two to go!” Liam cried as he sent the ball to third for the start of a trip around the horn.
Back in his squat, he sized up the batter. The Malden player was a substitute taking his first turn at bat that game, but Liam remembered him from their previous meeting. He hadn’t been a threat then—and he was no match for Phillip’s changeup now. He reached for the first two and missed. He connected on the third but only for a pop-up toward shortstop. Christopher caught it for out number two.
The people in the stands buzzed with excitement as the ball whipped around the bases again. Then they fell silent, as if holding their collective breath, when the third Malden batter walked to the plate.
As the boy tapped the dirt from his cleats, Liam caught a glimpse of his face. He looked nervous. No, more than nervous: petrified. Liam felt a wave of pity for him and nearly murmured a word of encouragement. Then the boy stepped into the box and the urge vanished.
They were in competition for the title, after all.
From the mound, Phillip gave the batter a steely-eyed stare. Then he nodded at Liam’s signal for a changeup. After using his arm to wipe sweat from his forehead, he reared back and threw.
Crack! The ball rocketed into the air behind first base. For a split second, the boy just stood there, openmouthed with astonishment. Then he dropped the bat and ran to first.
“Go! Go! Go!” his teammates screamed.
He’s fast, Liam saw with a sinking heart. He’ll beat the throw.
In right field, Rodney made a valiant dive for the ball, but it fell out of reach. The Malden boy touched first, spotted Rodney sprawled in the grass, and took off for second.
Bad idea! Liam thought. He was right.
Rodney sprang to his feet, snagging the ball as he did, and turned to throw to Matt at second. As fast as the Malden player was, there was no way he could outrun a speeding baseball. Even if Matt missed, Phillip was right there backing him up.
Matt didn’t miss. Foot firmly on the bag, he caught the ball and nailed the runner with the tag.
The umpire yelled the words Liam and his teammates had longed to hear: “Yer out!”