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their coach said worked, because our next hitter, Alvin Powell, went down on three fastball strikes. That meant it was up to Andy Chase, and Chase had already struck out swinging twice. If he made an out, Levine would probably send Clarke back out to the mound and save me in case the game went into extra innings.
    The pitcher got two quick strikes on Chase, then barely missed getting a called strike three. The next pitch was some sort of changeup. Chase was way out in front, but he did manage to hold back his swing enough to slice a pop-up down the first base line.
    It was trouble for Inglemoor the minute it left the bat. The right fielder got a bad break on the ball, and he wasn't the fastest guy anyway. Their first baseman turned the wrong way as he headed back. When he tried to right himself, his feet got tangled up, and he flopped to the ground. The ball landed two feet fair and then immediately spun into foul territory. With two outs, Cutler and Cantfield had taken off at the crack of the bat and scored easily. We had the lead.
    Robby Richardson struck out on three pitches—no changeups for him. As our guys took the field for the last half inning, I looked to Levine, and he pointed his finger at me. I threw one final warm-up pitch to Diggs, then ran out to the mound.
    Our fans rose to their feet and cheered for me. "You can do it, Shane!...One, two, three!...Show 'em your stuff."

    I tried to throw my warm-up pitches just like I always did. Maybe ninety percent, maybe less. But it was hard not to let everything fly. The umpire signaled that I had one more. I fired it in. Ted Hearn threw the ball down to second; it went around the horn. "Batter up!" the umpire called, and I stepped onto the rubber.
    The parents behind our bench kept cheering, but at that instant, my world got small. It was only me, the plate, and the catcher's glove—and I knew I was all right. I worked the ball inside and outside, up and down in the zone. With each strike, with each out, the roar from our fans grew louder, but it was distant, like thunder in the mountains. Not until the last Inglemoor hitter went down swinging did I let myself see or hear anything other than home plate and the umpire's voice. When his right arm went up in the air and he shouted "Strike three!" my teammates surrounded me, pounding me on the back and shaking my hand. By the time I reached the bench, my cheeks hurt from smiling so much.

CHAPTER 9
    On the ride home, as Levine told me how awesome I'd been, I looked out the window at the shiny sports cars flying by us in the fast lane. I felt I belonged in one of them. I dreamed baseball dreams, imagining how sweet it would be to pitch in the major leagues, to get the final out to win a big league game.
    When we pulled off the freeway, the stop-and-go traffic snapped me out of it. In ten minutes I'd be home again. Home. When I'd see my dad, he'd ask me how I'd done. I'd describe the strikeouts, and he'd smile. "I won't miss your next game. I promise."

    How could I tell him the truth? How could I tell him that I
wanted
him to miss my next game, and the game after that, and the game after that? That it was
because
he'd missed the game that I'd pitched well?
    Levine stopped at the Sound Ridge gate. I leaned toward the driver's seat to wave to Simon. Instead of smiling at me and saying something, he barely made eye contact, waving the van through quickly.
    Levine drove slowly. "It's left up here, isn't it?" he said.
    "Yeah, and then two quick rights after that."
    "I sort of remember. But tell me if I go wrong."
    Normally our neighborhood is quiet, but that afternoon people were on their front lawns in groups of two or three, whispering.
    The road bent around a corner, and my home came into view. Two aid cars, a fire truck, and a police car were in front. Levine looked at me quickly. "That's your house, isn't it?"
    I nodded.
    He pulled up to the curb. "You stay in the car. Let me find out what's going on."
    It was my home