Liam McGrath, twelve-year-old catcher for the Ravenna All-Stars of Southern California, shifted. His gaze flicked to the scoreboard beyond the left-field fence of Al Houghton Stadium. It was the bottom of the fifth inning of the West Regional Championship. The score was Guests 4, Home 7. Southern California was the visiting team.
His lips tightened. We’ve got to get this guy out, he thought. He returned his attention to the boy on the mound. Time to turn up the heat, Phillip!
Holding the baseball behind his back, pitcher Phillip DiMaggio leaned forward, narrowed his piercing black eyes, and glared at the Northern California batter. Liam wondered how the hitter felt being on the receiving end of that look. A little unnerved, he guessed. That’s how he’d felt, anyway, whenever Phillip had turned that glare on him, back when they played on different teams during the regular Little League season.
If the Northern California player was bothered, though, he didn’t show it. Nor did he seem troubled that there were two outs, that the count was oh-and-two, or that he could strand runners on first and second. Why should he? Earlier in the game, he had clocked a two-run RBI triple under the exact same circumstances. Only a spectacular throw from outfielder Rodney Driscoll to Liam had prevented that triple from turning into a three-run homer.
Ignoring the knot of anxiety in his stomach, Liam flashed the signal for a fastball. Phillip nodded once. Then he reared back, lunged forward, and threw.
Swish! Thud! “Strike three!”
The knot vanished. The batter stood stock-still for a moment and then retreated to the dugout. The scoring threat was over.
The Southern California boys hustled into the third-base dugout. Coach Driscoll rattled off the batting order.
“Phillip is up first. Matt, you’re after Phillip. And then it’s Rodney, Liam, and Mason. Quick bats out there, and even quicker feet when you get a hit.” The coach smiled. “Right?”
“Sure thing, Dad,” Rodney replied enthusiastically. Rodney was Coach Driscoll’s adopted son. He had a brother, Sean, who was also adopted. Sean wasn’t on the All-Star team, but he was in the stands, cheering for his brother and the other players.
Phillip stepped into the batter’s box. He fouled off the first pitch for strike one. He straightened out the next one for a sizzling line drive past the pitcher and landed safely at first.
“Here we go, Matt, here we go!” Coach Driscoll called. The boys added their voices, quieted with the pitch, and then, leaping to their feet, bellowed with joy. Matt Finch slugged the ball far into the outfield for a stand-up double!
Runners on second and third, no outs. Excitement shot up Liam’s spine as Rodney, one of the team’s best hitters, approached the plate.
If Rodney gets a hit, I would be the go-ahead run. If I see a pitch I like…
He shook his head to keep his hopes from running away with him. He glanced at NoCal’s pitcher—and those thoughts came racing back.
The boy on the mound had started the game. He had a good changeup and a great fastball. But neither pitch had stumped Liam. His first at bat, he’d hit a single. He got up again in the fourth and belted a double that earned SoCal its fourth run. Now the same pitcher had given up two straight hits.
When Rodney connected with the first pitch, Liam’s heart started pounding. And when Phillip crossed the plate and Rodney landed safely at first with Matt staying put at second, Liam’s heart threatened to burst right out of his chest.
As he adjusted his batting helmet, a hand dropped lightly onto his shoulder, startling him. “Deep breaths, son,” Coach Driscoll murmured. “Deep, calming breaths.”
Liam closed his eyes and inhaled slowly through his nose. He held the breath for a moment and blew it out slowly through his mouth. The breathing technique was something Coach Driscoll had taught him. A dentist by profession, the coach used it to soothe nervous patients. It worked just as well with nervous players.
Coach Driscoll handed him a bat. “Better?”
Liam grinned. “Much. Thanks, Coach.” Buoyed by a wave of enthusiastic applause from his teammates, he left the dugout.
“Time!”
Liam froze at the umpire’s call. He watched with dismay as NoCal’s manager pulled his pitcher. When he saw who was coming in, his dismay turned to sinking dread.
Liam had faced the new NoCal pitcher once before in the West Regionals. Things had not gone well—not by a long shot.
Like his teammate, the boy had a good changeup and a decent fastball. He had a third pitch, too: a knuckleball that bobbled and danced its way through the air toward home plate. That was the pitch he’d thrown to Liam three times in a row.
And it was the one Liam had missed by a mile three times in a row.
There’s nothing you can do about it, he thought ruefully, so make the best of it.
“Batter up!”
Liam squared his shoulders, strode to the plate, and hefted the bat into position. The pitcher wound up and threw. It was a knuckleball. Even though Liam had been expecting the pitch, he couldn’t follow the ball’s path. He let it go by, hoping it would miss the strike zone.
It didn’t. The umpire made a fist for strike one. One pitch later, he repeated the gesture.
Sweat beaded on Liam’s forehead. He wiped it away quickly and glanced at the mound.
The pitcher’s lips twitched in a smirk.
And just like that, Liam’s anxiety fled. Fierce determination took its place. He moved back into position with one goal in mind: to blast the ball out of the park and wipe that smirk off the pitcher’s face.
The NoCal hurler leaned in, took the signal, reared back, and threw. Liam locked onto the ball the way a missile locks onto its target. He swung with all his might.
Pow!