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Angels had managed to come back with six more runs, and now the score was 11–8. But it was the top of the seventh and final inning, and Mr. Olafssen was pretty much obliged, by the laws of decency, fair play, and the Clam Island Mustang League, to play every able-bodied kid on the team for at least half an inning of every game. There were two out, two on, and no runs in, and it was going to be up to Ethan to pad the Roosters' lead.
    "Get in there, now," Mr. Olafssen said, just the way he always did. "Get in there and take your hacks."
    Ethan, however, did not want any hacks. Usually, when he came to the plate, Ethan Feld tried to swing his bat as little as possible. He just kept the bat on his shoulder, hoping for a walk. The truth is, he was afraid of trying to accomplish anything more, at the plate, than a walk. And he was afraid of being hit by the ball. But mostly he was mortally afraid of striking out swinging. Was there any worse kind of failure than that? Striking out . It was the way you described it when you failed at anything else in life, the symbol of every other kind of thing a person could possibly get wrong. Often enough, the opposing pitching was not too good in the Mustang League. Ethan's strategy of just standing there, waiting for four bad pitches to come across the plate before three good ones did, frequently worked. But it was a strategy that was not at all respected by the other players. Ethan's nickname in the Mustang League, in fact, was "Dog Boy," because of the way he was always hoping for a walk.
    He trudged up to the plate, dragging his bat behind him like a caveman in the cartoons dragging his club. He hoisted the bat to his shoulder—it was still sore from when his father had stopped short to avoid hitting the little fox-monkey thing—and looked over at his father, who gave him a big thumbs-up. Then Ethan stared out at Per Davis, who had taken over the pitching for the Angels. Per looked almost sorry to see Ethan. He winced a little bit, then sighed, and went into his stretch. A moment later something troubled the air around Ethan's hands.
    "Her-ite one!" cried out the umpire, Mr. Arch Brody of Brody's Drug. Mr. Brody prided himself on the authentic-sounding way he called the balls and strikes.
    "Come on, Dog Boy," called Kyle. "Get that bat off your shoulder."
    "Come on, Dog!" called the other boys.
    Ethan let another blur color the air between him and Per Davis.
    "Her-ite TWO!" Mr. Arch Brody yelled.
    Ethan heard the gravelly voice of Ringfinger Brown.
    "When the time come," the old man said, "you best be ready to swing."
    Ethan searched the crowd but could not find the old man anywhere, though the voice had sounded as if it were just at his elbow. But he saw that Jennifer T. was looking right at him.
    "Breathe," she suggested, moving her lips without speaking. Ethan realized that he had been holding his breath from the moment Mr. Olafssen had looked his way.
    He stepped out, took a breath, then stepped back in, resolved at last to take a hack. Playing the odds was one thing when the count was even at 0; with two strikes on him, maybe it made more sense to swing. When Per Davis reared back to let fly, Ethan wiggled his fingers on the shaft of the bat, and worked his shoulders up and down. Then, unfortunately, just before he swung the bat he did something kind of questionable. He closed his eyes.
    "Her-ite her-REE!" shouted Mr. Brody, sealing Ethan's doom.
    "That's all right," Jennifer T. told him as they walked out to the field. "We'll hold 'em. At least you took a hack."
    "Yeah."
    "It was a nice-looking swing."
    "Yeah."
    "Just a little early, is all."
    "I shut my eyes," Ethan said.
    Jennifer T. stopped at first base, which was hers. She shook her head, not bothering to conceal her exasperation with Ethan, and then turned toward home plate.
    "Well, try to keep them open in the field, huh?"
    In the field—Coach Olafssen always stuck Ethan out in right, a region of the diamond to which boys