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  “Center field! Center field! Gallagher, wake up!” he suddenly heard Coach Bacino screaming. Joey came out of his trance, looked up, and saw the ball shooting into the outfield between him and Larry Levine, who was playing one of his rare innings in left field.

  “You got it! You got it!” Larry yelled, shying away from the hard-hit grounder, lest it bounce up and hit him in the head.

  Joey raced to cut the ball off, lunged at the last minute, and snagged it in the webbing of his mitt. He rolled over in a somersault and came up throwing, holding the runner to a single. A whoop went up from the Marlins in the field and on the bench.

  But Joey knew he’d turned an easy play into a showboat play by not paying attention. And Coach Bacino knew it, too. He looked at Joey as he came back to the bench when the inning was over, shaking his head as if to say, “I don’t know about you, kid.”

  When he got up to pitch after the Marlins’ turn at bat, the score was still 2–0 in his favor. All he had to do was keep the score right where it was. The good thing was, he had an insurance run to work with. No pressure. Not yet.

  Not until he walked the first batter he faced. And the second. “Come on!” Pete Alessandra yelled through his catcher’s mask. “What are you doing? Throw it in here, man!”

  “Come on, Gallagher!” Coach shouted, clapping his hands. He sounded more nervous than reassuring. Joey bit his lower lip and tried to concentrate on Pete’s mitt.

  He threw a strike right over the middle. The batter just watched it. Obviously the Cubs were going to look for walks until Joey proved he could put the ball over the plate. Joey threw another meatball, and again the batter just stood there. “Stee-rike two!” the umpire yelled.

  Now, with two strikes, Joey knew he had the batter where he wanted him. He threw the next pitch high and outside, and the batter swung wildly at it. “Steerike three — yer out!” the umpire said, dramatically yanking his fist back to signal his call.

  Joey blew out a relieved breath. His heart was pounding so loud he could hear it reverberating in his ears, drowning out the cheers of his teammates. He started the next hitter off with a pitch down low — but it was too low, hitting the dirt in front of home plate and bouncing to the backstop over Pete’s shoulder. By the time he’d retrieved it, the runners had moved up to second and third. Now a mere single would blow the entire lead.

  Joey bore down, staring in at the catcher’s mitt. He reared back and threw a slow change-up. The hitter swung early, and Joey was up on the count, 0–1. Next, he fired the ball as hard as he could, aiming shoulder high. The hitter, primed for the slow pitch, swung late.

  “Stee-rike two!”

  Joey threw his next pitch low and outside. The hitter reached for it and bounced it to the shortstop. Jordan picked it up, and seeing it was too late to prevent the run from coming in, he threw to first for the second out.

  Joey fanned the next batter to get out of the inning, but now he only had a one-run lead. Neither team scored in the fifth, with Joey mowing down the bottom of the Cubs order, one-two-three. Still, he wasn’t celebrating yet. He knew he’d have to face the Cubs’ best hitters in the sixth.

  Joey led off at bat at the top of the sixth, determined to score a run and give himself a bigger cushion. On the first pitch, he smacked a single to right. Then the right fielder bobbled the ball. Joey took off for second and went into a slide as the throw came in. He felt the tag hit his leg just before he touched the bag. “Yer out!” the umpire called.

  Joey was disgusted with himself for not making it to second. He threw his batting helmet on the ground, then snatched it back up and trotted off the field.

  “Good try, kid,” Coach told him as he sat down on the bench. “It was the right play. We need the insurance run.”

  But they didn’t get it, and Joey took the mound with only the slimmest of margins to work with. He knew that if he got the first batter out, it would make things easier and give him the confidence he needed to make it through. So he tried to get ahead of him with a super-slow change-up. Except this time the hitter was ready for it, slapping it over the shortstop’s head for a single.

  Now the pressure was really on. Joey could feel it twisting his stomach in knots as he tried to concentrate on his next pitch, a fastball. The hitter made contact, barely, and the ball skittered toward second base. Joey reached for it and grabbed it but wasn’t sure if he had a play at second or not. He hesitated for an instant, and then it was too late. He turned to first and threw, but the runner was already there.

  He didn’t hear the moan that went up from the Marlins stands — the pounding in his ears was too loud — but he knew it was there. How could it not be? He’d screwed up badly, making a crucial error at the worst possible time!

  He forced himself to concentrate, to shut out everything but the catcher’s mitt. The next batter was a huge hulk of a kid, and he was wiggling the bat around like he wanted to hit the ball all the way to China. Joey threw him a trio of slow, tantalizing pitches, some high, some low, and tied him up in knots, striking him out on three pitches.

  Next up was the cleanup hitter, and Joey fooled him with a first-pitch fastball right over the plate.

  “Come on, Gallagher, you can do it!” Pete yelled from behind his catcher’s mask.

  Joey reared back and fired a fastball high. The hitter popped it straight up. Pete threw off his mask and tried to get under it. Jordan came in from short, calling for the ball, but it was obvious Pete couldn’t hear him, or wasn’t listening.

  Joey saw that they were going to run into each other. “I got it, I got it!” he cried, and leaped up to grab the ball before the other two collided. But the ball glanced off the webbing of his mitt and skittered off into foul territory.

  Joey ran to get it as the runners scooted around the bases. Pete, unhurt thanks to Joey, headed back to the plate to make the play on the first runner coming in. Joey fired it to him, off balance, and Pete caught the ball just as the Cubs runner slid into home. Pete applied the tag — but the runner’s cleats knocked the ball out of his mitt!

  “Safe!” yelled the umpire, as the ball dribbled toward the mound. Joey got up and ran to get it. The second runner came around third and just kept going. Joey, his eyes on the runner approaching home, reached down to pick up the ball and flip it to Pete — and his hand came up empty!

  Another error!

  “Safe!” screamed the umpire, as the winning run crossed home.

  Cubs 3, Marlins 2. Their first loss of the season — and it was all Joey’s fault!

  5

  Nobody said much as each player gathered up his gear. There was nothing anyone could say that would make the team feel any better. This was a game they should’ve won. Now that they’d blown it, their record of 4–1 put them in a three-way tie for first place with the Orioles and the Phillies — teams they’d already beaten.

  Joey kept his eyes on his shoes. When he finally glanced up, the other kids hurriedly looked away from him. Even Larry Levine was speechless, merely shaking his head in dismay.

  The Mighty Marlins were no longer number one, and it hurt. Coach Bacino, hoisting the heavy duffel containing the team’s equipment, said, “Look, guys, we’ll just have to come back next game and play the way we can play. If we do that, we’ll be right there at the end of the season. Don’t let one bad loss spoil it for you.”

  Here’s what he didn’t say, but what Joey and everyone else knew he wanted to say: “If we’d had Nicky Canelo in there pitching instead of Joey Gallagher, we’d still have a perfect record.”

  Joey couldn’t remember ever feeling this bummed out. He wanted to quit the team, move to another town where nobody knew him, and never see any of these kids again.

  Well, maybe that was going too far, he reasoned, calming down a little as he walked toward the station wagon. He could see that both his mom and dad were in the front seat. Great. They’d start off by asking him how the game went, and then, when he told them, they’d gasp and cluck their tongues a
nd say, “Oh, no!” and tell him it would go better next game.

  He didn’t want to hear any of it. He felt rotten enough already. “We lost,” he announced as he threw his bat and mitt into the backseat, sat down with a thud, and slammed the door shut behind him. “And I don’t want to talk about it, okay?”

  “Whoa,” said his mom, glancing over at his dad, who was in the passenger seat.

  “Okay, then,” his dad said, turning to look at Joey over his shoulder. “Let’s forget about the game. Aren’t you excited?”

  “Excited?”

  “About Jesus coming!”

  “Oh! Yeah! Right. Sure,” Joey said. “Excited. Yeah.” In his anguish over losing the game, he’d forgotten they were driving right to the airport afterward. No wonder both his parents had come along to pick him up.

  The car was silent for a bit, then his mother said, “I wonder if he’ll be bringing cold-weather clothes with him.”

  “I doubt it, Gail,” his dad replied. “They don’t have winter there.”

  “Well, maybe we could let him wear some of Joey’s things,” she suggested.

  “I’ve gotta share my clothes now?” Joey protested. “Just the ones you’re tired of, son,” his dad said. “Come on, now, you’ve got plenty to spare.”

  “Whatever,” Joey said and slid down low in the backseat, opting out of any further conversation. He wondered what Jesus was going to be like. He knew you couldn’t tell — not really — from a photograph and a couple of letters. What if the kid was bratty or weird? What if they had nothing in common and nothing to say to each other? He knew enough to realize that no matter what, his parents would try to push the two of them to be friends. And nothing is harder than making friends when your parents are pushing you to do it. What if Joey hated him?

  Or what if Jesus hates me? he suddenly thought. After today, Jesus would have plenty of company. Joey put his headphones on and turned on some music to try to block such thoughts from entering his brain. He bopped his head to the beat so that just in case his parents tried to engage him in conversation, they’d see he couldn’t hear them.

  After an hour in the car, he heard his mother call out, “We’re here!” She made her voice loud enough to penetrate the wall of sound being pumped into his ears through the headphones. “Take that thing off now, Joey. We’re going inside.”

  With a big sigh, Joey took off the headphones and threw them down on the seat, then got out and followed his parents into the terminal.

  “Have you got the sign?” his mom asked.

  “Right here,” his dad said, unfolding a placard that read, WELCOME JESUS!

  Oh, brother, thought Joey. Here we go. Sure enough, as they stood there holding up their sign and watching people emerge from the customs/baggage-check area, other people gave them lots of space and lots of sidelong glances. “They think we’re weird,” Joey told his dad.

  “Huh? Why in the world would anybody think that?” his mother asked.

  “The sign,” Joey told her. “They think we’re some kind of religious nuts.”

  She looked at the poster, and it seemed to hit her all of a sudden. “Oh! Well, never mind what anybody thinks. Jesus is his name, after all, honey, and we have to let him know who we are. Remember, he’s come all the way here by himself. And we’re his new family.”

  Joey winced. Why did she have to keep putting it that way? Sighing again, he turned his attention back to spotting Jesus. There weren’t very many kids by themselves, he noticed. Huh. It was pretty brave of Jesus to come without an escort. Joey didn’t think he’d have felt comfortable doing it. Maybe his mom was right, just this once.

  Then suddenly, he saw him. A tall, skinny, dark-skinned kid coming through the gate, wearing a white, short-sleeved dress shirt, black dress pants, and sandals. He sort of looked like Jesus in the photo, but Joey wasn’t sure. This kid had a shaved head and was at least a foot taller than the one in the photo.

  Nevertheless, it was him, all right. When the tall boy looked around as the customs officials checked his bags, he saw the sign. He waved and gave them all a big smile.

  “Hey-SOOS!” Joey’s mom called out, jumping up and down and clapping her hands. “Oh, darling, isn’t this exciting?”

  “Sure is,” Joey’s dad replied, hugging her and waving to Jesus. Joey waved, too, but it was a weak wave, and his smile felt pasted on his face.

  Jesus grabbed his bag and his passport and proceeded through the checkpoint.

  “Hello! Welcome!” Joey’s mom said, giving Jesus a big hug.

  “Bienvenido a los Estados Unidos!” his father said in halting Spanish. “Here, let me get those bags for you.” He tried to take Jesus’s suitcase. At first, Jesus didn’t seem to understand and tried to hold tightly to it, but Joey’s dad finally got his point across, saying, “It’s all right, it’s all right — you’re family now. Familia!”

  “Sí, familia,” Jesus echoed, nodding shyly and smiling. He turned to Joey. “You are Ho-ey?” he asked.

  “Joey,” Joey corrected. “And you’re Jesus.”

  “Jesus, sí,” said Jesus. He put out his hand to shake Joey’s, and Joey took it. Jesus’s hand was sweaty and cool, and his handshake was weak. Joey wiped his hand on his pants when Jesus wasn’t looking.

  “Come. Our car — our auto — there,” Joey’s dad said in broken English, pointing to the parking lot. Joey rolled his eyes. Was that how they were all going to talk from now on? For goodness’ sake!

  “Ah. Allí?” Jesus asked.

  “Sí, sí,” Joey’s mom said, although she obviously didn’t understand what Jesus had asked.

  They walked across the airport parking lot, his parents asking a million questions, such as “How was your flight?” and “Have you eaten dinner?” and “What do you like to eat?”

  Jesus did the best he could to answer them, but Joey could tell right away that he didn’t speak nearly as much English as they’d said in the letter from the exchange program. He pretty much said “sí” or “no,” or “good,” or “okay,” or “no good” to all the questions.

  “Mom, he doesn’t speak any English at all!” Joey whispered to her while his dad and Jesus put the suitcase and backpack in the trunk.

  “Now, honey, maybe he’s just shy or tired from his flight,” his mom said. That was the end of the discussion, because just then the trunk slammed shut, and everyone got into the car. Jesus sat next to Joey in the back.

  “Tu casa — your house — near to airport?” Jesus asked him.

  Joey’s eyes opened wide. Maybe his mom had been right. It was the most English Jesus had spoken so far. “No. It’s far,” Joey said.

  “Ah. Far. No near.” Jesus nodded.

  “Yeah, it’s about sixty miles . . .” Then he remembered that most countries used the metric system. He did a quick little calculation. “Um, cien kilómetros.”

  Jesus whistled through his teeth, something Joey had tried for years to do without success. “Nicaragua only doscientos kilómetros from el Atlántico al Pacífico!” Jesus laughed, holding his hands apart to illustrate.

  “Small,” Joey said, laughing a little at how Jesus had managed to get his point across.

  “America es más grande, sí?” Jesus said.

  “Oh, yeah,” Joey agreed. “Very, very big.”

  “Hey, CD!” Jesus said, discovering Joey’s player and headphones on the seat between them. “Supercool!”

  “You know what it is?” Joey asked, surprised. “Sí — yes!” Jesus answered. “Is okay I . . . ?”

  “Sure,” Joey said. “I don’t know if you’ll like the music, though.”

  “I like all kind music,” Jesus said. He put on the headphones and started listening. Soon he was bopping his head and laughing. “Supercool. I like very much,” he said.

  “All right!” Joey said. So far, so good. If Jesus could get into Twisted Fyshburger, Joey had lots more music to turn him on to.

  Jesus took off the headphones. “You,” he said, offe
ring them to Joey.

  “No, that’s okay,” Joey told him. Jesus put the headphones down on the seat and looked out the window, still bopping his head a little. The sun had set by now. It was getting dark as they got off the interstate and started passing the farmhouses and cornfields that ringed Bordentown.

  Ay, mamacita, que casas grandes!” Jesus said, his face glued to the window. “So much maíz!”

  “Corn, yeah,” Joey corrected him.

  “You house so much big?”

  “Um, not really . . . well, sort of. We’re in a town,” Joey tried to explain. “Ciudad pequeño.”

  “Ah, sí — pequeña,” Jesus corrected him, laughing a little at Joey’s pathetic attempts at Spanish. Then he fell silent and turned to look out the window again. They were coming into Bordentown now, and Joey’s mom had taken them in via Borden Avenue, where the town’s biggest mansions were.

  Joey felt himself getting angry. Why was she doing that? Couldn’t she see that Jesus was already gawking, even at ordinary houses? Was she trying to make him feel bad about his own house back home or what? He wished she would use her head sometimes, but there wasn’t much he could do about it at the moment.

  “In Nicaragua, only rich, rich people have such house,” Jesus said.

  “Uh-huh,” Joey said, a little embarrassed. “The people on this street are pretty rich, actually. But . . . but I’m sure Nicaragua is nice, too,” he offered.

  “Oh, sí. Some place nice, some no nice,” Jesus replied. “Where I live nice, but no like this.”

  “You’re much taller than your picture, Jesus,” Joey’s mom said from the front seat.

  “Qué?”

  “Más grande,” Joey translated, realizing that his Spanish was not even as good as Jesus’s pathetic English.

  “Yo? O, sí! Since one year, I am grow catorce centímetros. Fourteen. Now my clothes, everything too small!”