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pulled up to the field on Saturday that it really hit me: I was a star. When I got off the bus there were kids chanting, “Dan-ee! Dan-ee!” Of course a certain sports gear company was on the scene handing out free T-shirts to everyone: leopard spots and the Ocelot logo, like the one I was wearing under my jersey. They also had balloons with the same spots and logo, and every little kid seemed to be holding one. Last but not least, they had 8x10 glossy photos of me making The Catch. They all wanted me to sign their photos.
    On Saturday things went our way. Carson was in a groove, our power guys were hitting, and I handled a lot of business—in more ways than one—in center field. Mr. Strauss and I had worked out that I’d unbutton my jersey a little when I was in the field so the Ocelot T-shirt would show for the fans—and the cameras, of which the company now had four placed at different spots around the field.
    With one out in the sixth, the Capitals’ catcher drove one hard to the fence in center. I caught up with it, though, and grabbed it over my head. The crowd yelled and waved the spotted balloons, and I just held up the ball for a minute and grinned, showing the shirt, before I remembered there was a runner on second.
    Sure enough, he had tagged up and was streaking for third. I gunned it in towards third, but Trip cut it off. Even if the throw had gone to the base, Nellie would have had to handle it on two hops. Better to let the guy take third.
    Uh-oh, my bad. As it happened, the next guy grounded out, so the runner was stranded. Still I could feel the glares of my teammates and Wash as I returned to the dugout. All Wash said as I passed him was, “Your shirt’s unbuttoned,” but his tone said a lot more.
    Whatever. I drove in a run that inning, and we eventually beat the Caps 5–2. No one spoke to me on the bus ride back to the hotel. Nellie stopped for a minute on the way to his seat and looked at me like he was going to say something, but then he just raised his eyebrows and passed by. Shotaro was in the seat next to me, hooked up to his earplugs and iPod.
    â€œIs it a little chilly in here?” I said to him, but of course he didn’t hear.
    Baseball—heck, all sports—is funny. One day you’re totally, effortlessly focused; the next day you’re flat. You’d think, since a baseball team carries a couple of dozen different players, that the individual ups and downs would even out. But it doesn’t always work that way; sometimes the whole team bottoms out at once.
    That’s what happened to us Sunday afternoon. The Caps weren’t bad. Their pitcher was steady and their infield was scooping up everything hit on the ground. Which was part of our problem. Almost everything we hit was on the ground. In nine innings, we had three hits and the Caps had turned three double plays. Jonas pitched well for us, and he deserved better. But our cold bats made him the loser, 3–0.
    The guys were quiet at supper. We’d lost something, and we didn’t know where to find it. At dessert, though, Coach Harris stood and spoke. He actually seemed pretty upbeat.
    â€œLook guys,” he said, “once in a while you’re going to have a game like that. Sometimes you can’t tell why. It looked to me like everyone was hustling. When I see that, I’m not too discouraged. And the good thing is, we had it to spend. We can still go home winners tonight, okay?”
    Nellie spoke up. “We will, Coach. Right, guys?”
    The leader thing. Coach has it. Nellie has it. And we all trusted it. Somehow we snapped out of our funk. At least that’s how it felt.

CHAPTER 11
    W hen we got to the ballpark I was in for a surprise. Dad was there, along with Sal, and they were talking with Mr. Strauss.
    I ran over and hugged Dad, who seemed to be in a great mood.
    â€œI have a good feeling about this game,” he said. “Right,