Carter’s heart had given a leap when Coach Harrison told him he was replacing Luke. Then the coach had laid a hand on his shoulder.
“You’re about to face friends out there,” he’d said. “But while you’re on the mound, think of them as batters. Or whatever you need to imagine them to be to pitch your best.”
“I will,” Carter promised.
Adrenaline surged through his system as he ran onto the field and took his warm-up pitches. Now he prepared to channel it into his real pitches. He twirled the baseball in his hand, feeling the familiar rough stitching and smooth leather on his fingers.
Rodney came up to bat. They had shared some good times off the field in the past couple of days. But neither one was laughing now.
Ash flashed the signal for a fastball. Carter wound up and delivered. Rodney swung and missed.
“Strike one!” the umpire shouted.
Ash signaled for a changeup. Carter adjusted his grip, reared back, lunged forward, and threw. Rodney made contact this time, but the ball flew foul past the third-base line.
“Strike two!”
Allen retrieved the ball and returned it to Carter. Carter leaned forward, eyes on Ash’s fingers. When Ash motioned for another fastball, he gave a curt nod—and then hurled one of the fastest pitches he’d ever thrown.
Rodney’s swing was a fraction of a second too late.
“Strike three!”
Carter blew out a deep breath. Rodney was always a danger at the plate. Retiring him in three pitches felt good.
Liam stepped into the box. Carter’s grip on the ball tightened. Then the coach’s words came back to him. He relaxed.
I’m a pitcher. He’s a batter. It’s as simple as that.
He stared down at Ash, waiting for the signal. Ash flicked his fingers. Knuckleball. Carter bit his lip. No doubt Liam would be expecting that pitch.
But even if he is, he thought, he might not be able to hit it.
He changed his grip so the tips of his fingers and thumb were digging into the ball’s surface, wound up, and threw. It was a perfect delivery. He could barely follow the ball as it fluttered toward Ash’s glove. Then—
Pow!
Liam creamed it! Carter whipped around as the small white sphere soared high over the infielders’ heads toward left field. Charlie M. raced back until he couldn’t go any farther. Liam touched first and dashed to second. Charlie M. raised his glove. Liam hit second and kept going. Charlie M. gave a mighty leap—and plucked the ball out of the air!
As the fans applauded the amazing catch, Liam slowed to a trot. Carter couldn’t see his face beneath the cap, but he suspected his cousin’s expression was grim. There was nothing he could do about that, though. Liam knew as well as he did that one of two things happened when a batter came to the plate: He got on base or made an out. There were countless factors that determined the outcome. This time, Charlie M.’s speed and agility had made the difference.
Carter struck out the next batter, Mason, in five pitches to end West’s turn at bat.
“All right, boys, let’s make the fifth inning the big one,” Coach Harrison said when the players returned to the dugout. He bounced on his toes, his eyes snapping with excitement and energy. “Let’s take the lead—and keep it! What do you say?”
“Yes!” the players shouted as one.
“Here’s the order: Charlie S., Ash, Charlie M. Ready? Hands in the middle.”
The boys circled up.
“Mid-Atlantic, one-two-three! Mid-Atlantic, one-two-three!”
Charlie S. grabbed a bat, stuck a helmet on his head, and hustled to the plate. He took a swing at the first pitch and smoked a grounder toward first. Mason got his glove on it and beat Charlie S. to the bag for out number one.
“You got this, Ash, you got this!” Carter cried.
Ash swung twice and missed twice. He fouled the third pitch directly at the first-base dugout. The boys inside instinctively ducked, even though they knew the fence would protect them. On the fourth pitch—
Ping!
“It’s gone! It’s gone! It’s gone!” Carter screamed.
It wasn’t a homer, though; the ball landed just out of the center fielder’s reach but was inside the fence. Ash ran from first to second and then second to third. He slid across the base just ahead of the cutoff man’s throw.
“Hit ’em home, Charlie M.!” the Mid-Atlantic players shouted.
When Charlie M. fouled the ball three times, the shouts grew a little louder. The encouragement must have helped, though, because he lined the fourth pitch past the shortstop. He reached first—and Ash made it home!
West 6, Mid-Atlantic 5.
Allen hit into a double play, so that’s where the score stayed. The board didn’t change at the top of the sixth, either. Three West batters came up and faced Carter. All three returned to their dugout having failed to get on base.
“Bring it in, boys,” Coach Harrison called. He gave them the shortest pep talk ever. “One run to tie. Two to win.” He looked Carter in the eye and glanced at Charlie M. and Craig. “Some of us have been in this same position before. This time, I know we can leave the field with a different result. We can do this.”
The players murmured their agreement. Then they said it louder. And finally, they shouted it at the top of their lungs. “We can do this!”
“Raj, you’re up first. Then Ron and Carter.”
Carter started. He’d forgotten that he’d taken Luke’s place in the lineup and now followed Ron instead of Charlie M.
“Now pitching for West, Phillip DiMaggio.”
And instead of facing Elton or Carmen, I’ll be facing Phillip!
Ping!
The sound of bat meeting ball brought him back to the moment. Raj had singled. Ron took some big cuts but failed to connect.
I can do this, Carter thought as he walked to the batter’s box. Suddenly, something Coach Harrison once said came back to him.
Just keep doing what you’ve been doing, and you’ll walk off that field as winners—whether you win the game or not.
Carter nodded to himself and got into position. His green eyes met Phillip’s piercing black ones. A frisson of electricity seemed to connect them.
“Go, Carter! Go, Carter! Go, Carter!” the Mid-Atlantic boys chanted. Carter blocked them out. Phillip wound up and threw. The pitch zipped through the air. Carter swung—and hit the ball. It wasn’t a rocket like Liam’s—Carter wasn’t that kind of hitter, not yet, anyway—but it was good enough for a single and well-placed, too, bouncing into shallow right field. Raj put on a burst of speed and reached third.
Freddie was up next. Like Ron, he swung hard but missed three pitches to make out number two.
Now Stephen took his turn at bat. Carter’s heart hammered in his chest. His legs tensed, ready to run if—
Ping!
Stephen got a hit! Carter raced to second. Raj motored home and scored!
Tie ball game! Carter wanted to dance a jig. But, of course, he didn’t. He hid his excitement when, unbelievably, Phillip walked Charlie S. to load the bases. When Ash moved to the plate, though, he balled his hands into fists and lightly pounded them against his thighs.
Ash! Ash! Ash! his mind yelled.
Phillip wound up and threw. Ash uncoiled.
Pow!
Carter didn’t wait to see where the ball went. Head down, he took off for home at a dead sprint.
“Gogogogogogogo!” the third-base coach yelled. Then, “Hit the dirt, Carter!”
He obeyed. The loose soil rolled beneath his buttocks as he slid feetfirst toward home.
Toward Liam, poised to make the catch and tag him out. Toward victory, if he slid beneath the tag—or defeat, if he was a second too late.
Whap! The ball was in Liam’s glove. His foot was inches from the plate. The glove swept down. His leg rode over the dish. There was an instant of complete silence, broken when the umpire made the call.
“Safe!”
Carter scored on the single! Mid-Atlantic won, 7 to 6!
If anyone had asked Carter the next day for a play-by-play of what had happened on the field next, he wouldn’t have been able to tell them much. He’d been too caught up in the emotion of the moment to focus on the details.
What he did remember, very clearly, was seeing Liam as the players shook hands after the game. He broke away from the line and charged at his cousin. He grabbed him in a bear hug and held on tight. Liam returned the hug with equal ferocity. Someone took a video of that hug and posted it online. Within hours, it went viral.
What the video failed to record was their conversation:
“You better win tomorrow, dork,” Liam said.
“I’ll try, doofus,” Carter replied.
Liam solemnly held up a finger. “As the great Jedi Master Yoda once said—”
“Do, or do not,” Carter finished for him. “There is no try!”
“Yeah.” Liam curled his finger so that he formed a fist. Carter lifted his fist, too. They brought them together, tapping once, twice, three times.
That’s what Carter was thinking about the next afternoon as he stood on the mound of Howard J. Lamade Stadium for the final game of the Little League Baseball World Series. Although Carter didn’t know exactly where Liam was in the stadium, he knew he was watching. So before he threw the first pitch, he raised his hand above his head and punched the air three times.
This one’s for you, Liam!