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Mickey Labriogla is the best catcher in the league. He's got a cannon for an arm, calls a great game, and blocks the plate like a bulldozer with shin guards. But when a hotshot new pitcher joins the Dulaney Orioles, Mickey wonders if it isn't time to find another position — or maybe another team.
Zoom's the most arrogant player the Orioles have ever seen. But even Coach Labriogla, Mickey's dad, seems in awe of the kid's talent and willing to overlook his insufferable behavior. When Mickey and Zoom find themselves rivals for the attention of the mysterious Abby Elliott, who works the concession stand, any chance the two teammates can get along goes out the window.
As the Orioles head to a seemingly-inevitable showdown in the new "Super-Regional" against Zoom's old team, the powerful Laurel Yankees, the clash between Mickey and Zoom threatens to derail the team's season.
Excerpt
A special thanks, as always, to Stephanie Owens Lurie, associate publisher of Disney âą Hyperion, for her invaluable guidance and sublime editing skills. She makes us
look better than we are. Way better.
âK.C.
Copyright © 2015 by Cal Ripken, Jr.
Cover art © 2015 by Robert Papp
Cover design by Tyler Nevins
All rights reserved. Published by Disney âą Hyperion, an imprint of Disney Book Group. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information address Disney âą Hyperion, 125 West End Avenue, New York, New York 10023.
ISBN 978-1-4847-1149-1
Visit www.DisneyBooks.com
Mickey Labriogla took the screaming foul tip smack in the middle of his catcherâs mask, the ball ricocheting with such force that it bounced halfway to the pitcherâs mound. The blow rocked him flat on his back as the rest of the Orioles gasped.
Showtime, Mickey thought. Here we go. Make it an instant classic.
Clutching his head with both hands, he climbed slowly to his feet and staggered in circles like a drunk. Finally he collapsed facedown in a dusty heap at the feet of the batter, Katelyn Morris, who regarded him suspiciously.
âIs heâŠdead?â third baseman Hunter Carlson asked as the Orioles ran over to check on their catcher.
Katelyn poked at Mickeyâs shoulder with one of her cleats and snorted.
âI doubt it,â she said. âHeâs probably not even hurt. It hit him in the head, didnât it? We know thereâs nothing to hurt in there.â
Suddenly Mickey scrambled to his feet. Raising his hands over his head and bouncing on his toes like a victorious boxer, he flashed a wide grin.
âLadies and gentlemen, I donât believe what Iâm seeing!â he intoned in a dramatic announcerâs voice. âMichael J. Labriogla just took a vicious foul ball to the face, a shot that would have laid out a water buffalo, never mind any other young ballplayer in the country. But here he is, back on his feet and dancing! Oh, you talk about heart! You talk about courage! No, they donât come any tougher than this young man!â
âThey donât come any dumber, either,â Katelyn muttered, shaking her head. âOkay, youâve had your little funâas pathetic and sophomoric as it was. Can we get on with batting practice now?â
Mickey pulled up his mask and gazed at Katelyn with a hurt expression.
âI hope you donât talk like that when weâre dating,â he said. âWhat would the other kids think?â
âYeah, like that could ever happen,â Katelyn said, rolling her eyes. âKeep dreaming, nerd.â
She dug in at the plate again and called out to the pitcherâs mound, where Coach Labriogla, Mickeyâs dad, looked on with amusement. âCoach, could you puh-leeze throw another pitch so I donât have to listen to any more of this ridiculous blabbering?â
The rest of the Orioles cracked up as Mickey snickered and crouched down for the next pitch.
He was a big, blocky twelve-year-oldâheâd shot up two inches and gained fifteen pounds since last season, much of it around his belly, which had left him feeling more than a little self-conscious. But he was a handsome kid, with a thatch of red hair and freckles, and a smile that seemed permanently in place. And on this perfect July morning, with the sun shining brightly and the sky so blue it seemed painted, he was in his usual terrific mood.
There was no place on earth Mickey wanted to be more than where he was right now, behind home plate on a dusty baseball diamond with his teammates.
A lot of kids hated catching. They hated wearing the bulky protective gear on hot summer days. They hated the constant squatting and all the punishment a catcher took from foul tips, wild pitches in the dirt, and the occasional bone-rattling collision at the plate.
Not Mickey. He loved everything about the position. He loved being involved in every pitch and seeing the entire game unfold before him. He loved calling pitches and trying to outthink the hitter in the age-old mental chess game that was every at-bat since the beginning of time.
His dad had told him that back in the day, ballplayers used to refer to the catcherâs mask, chest protector, and shin guards as âthe tools of ignorance.â
But Mickey wore the catcherâs gear proudly. He put on each piece with all the solemn ritual of a knight donning a suit of armor for battle. Before each game he would lovingly lay out his equipment on the dugout bench. Sometimes he would even narrate as each item was affixed to his body:
âStep one, as the great catcher prepares to lay his chiseled physique on the line once again for his team, he first secures his shin guards, using a crossover pattern with the straps, and making sure each fits snuglyâŠâ
âReally?â Katelyn once snapped at him. âWe have to listen to play-by-play of you putting on your stupid gear?â
âStep two,â Mickey had continued, ignoring the Oâs right fielder, âhe carefully positions the chest protector. After the protective cup, which he dons in private for obvious reasonsââhere he shot a knowing glance at Katelyn, the only girl on the teamââand the face mask designed to ensure that his rugged, movie-star good looks arenât damaged, the chest protector is key.â
âThatâs it, Iâm going to hurl,â Katelyn said, stomping away to much laughter before she had to listen to Mickey expound on the virtues of his oversize catcherâs mitt and how much he loved it.
Today, even though Mickey was in his usual sunny mood, a palpable air of worry hung over the Orioles as practice continued.
Not only were they only slightly better than a .500 team now, but their best pitcher and Mickeyâs lifelong friend, Gabe Vasquez, had hurt his shoulder in last weekâs 4â2 win over the Tigers. Rumors were already circulating that Gabe was done for the season. No one had heard anything official from Gabe or his parents, though, which left the Orioles hoping their ace would be back at some point.
Without Gabe, the Orioles would definitely struggle. True, they played solid defense. And the heart of their batting orderâshortstop Sammy Noah, Katelyn, center fielder Corey Maduro, and Mickey himselfâhad as much power as any other lineup in the league.
In fact, the Orioles had so much swagger about their ability to give the ball a ride that theyâd sometimes flex their biceps and chant, âMOVE THE FENCES BACK! ITâS TOO EASY!â during games, earning death stares from Coach.
No wonder the rest of the league doesnât like us, Mickey thought.
The Orioles didnât mean to be cockyâthey were just staying loose and having fun. But Mickey knew it rubbed some of the other teams the wrong way. And it definitely ticked off their coachesâyou could tell by the way they shook their heads and muttered.
But the Orioles would need to hit a ton of homers, Mickey knew, if Gabe was lost for the season. He was one of the best pitchers in the league, and also a team leader with a quiet self-confidence that rubbed off on the other Orioles. The Oâs number two pitcher, Danny Connolly, while steady, lacked the intimidating fastball and all-around mound presence of Gabe.
No, without Gabe, the Orioles had no shot at the championship, Mickey believed. No shot at all.
There was an added incentive for the Oâs to win it all this year: the league champs would play in a new one-game, winner-take-all regional final against the powerful Huntington Yankees. The Yankees were the most famousâinfamous was probably a better wordâtwelve-and-under team in the area, perennial winners of their league title.
Every Oriole had heard tales of the Huntington Yankees. They were reputed to be a bunch of spoiled rich kids, a team of All-Stars handpicked by their coach, Al âMoneyâ Mayhew.
The gruff Mayhew was renowned not only for bending the rules in assembling his dream team each season, but also for using questionable tactics during games. Like having two of his favorites yell put-downs at opposing batters to distract them, and having his batters constantly step out of the batterâs box to disrupt the opposing pitcherâs timing.
âDefinitely need you back if we play Huntington, Big Gabe,â Mickey whispered as he eased out of his gear before it was his turn to hit.
Danny was throwing BP now, Mickeyâs dad having begged off with a sore arm a few minutes earlier. Mickey watched the last of Dannyâs pitches to Corey. Each one seemed to cross the plate belt-high at exactly the same speed. His dad called them âassembly-line fastballs,â each an exact replica of the one before it.
Each practically screaming, âHit me!â
Danny was one of the most popular players on the Orioles. But seeing the way Corey was swinging from his heels and sending rockets to the deepest parts of the outfield, Mickey was even more convinced it would be a brutal last quarter of the season if the Orioles had to go without Gabe.
As Mickey got loose in the on-deck circle with a few practice swings, something on the adjacent field caught his eye. He looked over to see his dad crouched behind home plate, catching for a tall kid with long brown hair and a cap pulled low over his eyes.
The boy had a smooth relaxed windup with a high leg kick, yet the ball seemed to explode out of his hand. Mickey watched transfixed as the kid threw half a dozen fastballs, each one darting and dancing and smacking into his dadâs mitt with a loud WHUMP!
With each pitch, the kidâs grim expression never changed. All business, Mickey thought. Must be a lot of fun at parties.
âCurve!â the kid barked, and the next pitch spun and broke sharply at the last second, Mickeyâs dad scooping it out of the dirt and chortling with glee.
Mickey whistled softly. Thatâs some filthy stuff, he thought. I donât know who that kid plays for. But whoever it is, the catcherâs glove hand must sting for days.
By now some of the other Orioles were watching this little drama, too. Corey had stepped out of the batterâs box, his eyes widening with each pitch the kid threw. Danny and Katelyn were also studying the boy, obviously impressed.
A moment later, Mickeyâs dad stood, signaling an end to the session, and the kid nodded. As the two of them walked toward the rest of the Orioles, Mickeyâs dad grinned widely. The tall boy remained stone-faced.
âBoys and girls,â his dad said to the team, âmeet Zach Winslow. Looks like weâve got ourselves a new pitcher.â
The tall boy spit a shower of sunflower seeds into the air and pounded the pocket of his glove with his fist. He looked intently from one puzzled face to another and smirked.
âGuys, this is your lucky day,â he said. âYou just won yourselves the championship.â
Coach got to the bad news quickly, as he usually did.
âIâm afraid Gabeâs season is over,â he said. âHis mom left a message on my cell earlier. He has a severe elbow strain. And his doctor said that if he doesnât rest it, he could do permanent damage.â
The Orioles groaned and looked disconsolately at one another.
âThatâs it, weâre doomed!â said Hunter, throwing up his hands. âAll life is over. Weâll never win again. Oh, this is badâreal bad! Weâre gonna go, like, oh-for-the-rest-of-the-season.â
âThanks for that vote of confidence,â Danny said drily. âMuch appreciated. Great for the ego. Iâm feeling much better about myself.â
Katelyn glared at Hunter. Then she hauled off and punched him in the shoulder.
âMan up, nerd!â she barked. âWe are not doomed. Any more whining out of you, and Iâll smack you somewhere on that puny little body thatâll hurt a whole lot more.â
The rest of the Orioles snickered. Hunter rubbed his shoulder and stared sullenly at Katelyn but said nothing.
âAre we done with all the drama?â Mickeyâs dad said. âCan I continue? Okay, now for the good news. The league knows we desperately need another pitcherâno offense, Danny, we still need you, and youâll still get a lot of work. But since Zach and his family just moved here, theyâre letting us have him as an emergency fill-in.â
Coachâs grin got even wider. He rubbed his hands together gleefully.
ââCourse, I donât think the league knows how good he is,â he went on. âSome of you may have seen him throwing to me just now. I can say without fear of exaggeration that the boyâs got a live arm. A real live arm. Yep, I think weâre going to enjoy having Zach on this team. Right, Zach?â
âCall me Zoom,â the tall boy said.
The Orioles looked at each other.
âZoom?â Katelyn said. âThatâs not a name. Thatâs, like, a sound.â
âYeah,â Sammy said. âWasnât there a commercial about a car that went zoom-zoom?â
Zoom shrugged. âI donât watch much TV,â he said. âToo busy working on my game. Iâm all about perfecting my craft, being the best pitcher I can be.â
As the rest of the Orioles made gagging sounds, Katelyn said, âPuh-leeze! Tell me youâre kidding with that answer.â
âNope,â the kid went on. âAnyway, zoom is the sound my fastball makes. And itâs on you so fast, you only hear one zoom before it handcuffs you.â
âOhâŠmyâŠGod!â Katelyn said, looking at the others. âHeâs serious!â
Zoom stared at her. His expression remained blank as he spewed another stream of sunflower seeds into the air.
For several seconds, no one spoke.
âWell,â Mickeyâs dad said finally, âIâll leave you all to get acquainted. I have to call Gabeâs mom back, tell her how sorry we are and how much weâll miss Gabe. But Iâll let her know weâre going to be okay for the time being.â
As soon as Coach was gone, the Orioles circled around the tall boy.
âSo youâre like, what, the best kid pitcher ever?â Katelyn said. âIs that what youâre saying?â
âAnd youâre guaranteeing weâre going to win the league?â Sammy said. âYouâZach, Zoom, whatever your name isâyouâre personally going to save our season? Is that it?â
Hunter bowed in front of Zoom and murmured, âWe are not worthy, Lord Zoom, we are not worthyâŠâ
Zoom held up his hands and the hint of a smile appeared for the first time.
âOkay, okay, have your fun,â he said. âBut thereâs something you should know. And this should make you feel pretty good about our chances the rest of the way. Ready? Okay. I just got back from the Elite Arms Camp.â
The Orioles looked at one another.
âThe Elite Farms Camp?â Sammy said, nudging Corey. âHow does learning how to milk a cow or feed chickens help you play baseball?â
As the rest of the Orioles cracked up, Zoom shook his head sadly, as if dealing with a particularly dim-witted group of individuals.
âElite Arms,â he said. âItâs the premier instructional camp for youth pitchers on the East Coast. You gotta be an off-the-charts prospect to attend. Itâs strictly by-invitation-only. Everybodyâs heard of Elite Arms.â
âEverybody,â Corey said, nodding to the others.
âAbsolutely everybody,â Sammy said.
âIn China theyâve heard of it,â Corey said. âIndia, Africa, Australia. All over the world.â
âYou know,â said Spencer Dalton, the left fielder, âI think I heard the president talking about the camp during a news conference the other day. In fact, Zoom, I think he did a shout-out to you! No, now that I think about it, Iâm positive he did. âMajor props to the kid who went to Elite Armsââthatâs exactly what he said!â
Zoomâs face turned red as the Orioles dissolved in laughter again. They were on a roll, teasing the new guy unmercifully, to the point where Mickey was starting to feel sorry for him.
Sure, the kid is coming across as a world-class dork, Mickey thought. But maybe heâs really shy and trying a little too hard to impress his new teammates. Or maybe heâs just talking trash because thatâs what kids on his previous team did and he thinks itâs expected here, too.
At the same time, Mickey felt horrible for Gabe. Season over? He couldnât imagine it. Gabe was like himâhe lived and breathed baseball all year long. What he could imagineâall too clearlyâwas Gabe sitting in the doctorâs office, trying to hold back the tears as he heard the news.
Mickey shuddered. What a blow to the poor guy.
Plus the Orioles were losing more than just an awesome pitcher. Gabe was a great teammate, too, the kind of kid who was always encouraging everyone no matter what the score was or how well he himself was doing.
In fact, in the three years theyâd played together, not once had Mickey ever heard Gabe talk about his own stats. All he seemed to care about was the Orioles winning.
Oh, yeah, Mickey thought, this new kidâZoom, Zach, whateverâhas big spikes to fill.
As practice went on, though, it was obvious that not only did Zoom Winslow look All-World on the mound, he was a pretty complete player. He showed good range running down fly balls in the outfield. And when it was his turn to hit, he sprayed line drives to all fields and showed decent power.
âThe boy can play a little,â Sammy admitted grudgingly, watching Zoom leg out a double on his last at-bat.
âYeah,â Hunter said, âbut itâs only practice. Letâs see what happens in a real live game. Hope I donât have to start bowing to him again, though. That would majorly suck.â
At the end of practice, Coach spoke briefly to the Orioles about their upcoming game against the Blue Jays and what time to be at the field. Mickey noticed that Zoom kept his head down the whole time, drawing big Zs in the dirt with the handle of his bat and barely paying attention.
When Coach dismissed them, Zoom tossed his bat in his gear bag and headed wordlessly for the parking lot. After a moment, Mickey followed him.
âHey,â he called out, âIâm Mickey, the catcher for this homely-looking crew. Donât mind themâtheyâre just getting to know you. You looked pretty good out there. Should be fun working with you.â
Zoom stopped and studied Mickey.
âWorking with me?â he said.
âYeah, you know,â Mickey said. âGoing over the signs, figuring out what pitches to throw, how you like to pitch to different battersâŠâ
Just then a black SUV pulled up. A kind-looking man with glasses and thinning hair was behind the wheel. He rolled down the window and waved at the two boys.
âHold on a minute, Dad!â Zoom barked. âJeez!â
He turned back to Mickey and his eyes narrowed.
âLook, big man,â he said, âhereâs how weâre going to work together: I pitch; you catch and stay out of the way. End of story.â
With that, he opened the door and climbed into the front passenger seat. The driver smiled at Mickey and waved again as the car rolled away.
Ohhh-kay, Mickey thought as he watched the car disappear. This should be interesting. Very, very interesting.
Gabe rolled up the sleeve of his Orioles T-shirt and demanded that Mickey examine his arm.
âThere!â Gabe said. âSee anything wrong with it? Anything at all? No, right? No swelling, no black-and-blue, no nothing! It feels fine! But that stupid doctor says I canât pitch anymore!â
Mickey nodded, trying to appear sympathetic. But soon he returned his gaze to the walls of Gabeâs bedroom and winced.
Gabe and his mom lived in a big old house on the outskirts of town, and Mrs. Vasquez had basically ceded decorating rights to her sonâs room the day they moved in. This turned out to be a bad move.
A really bad move.
The result was a crazy, jumbled montage of posters of big-league pitchers like Johnny Cueto, Félix Hernåndez, and Chris Tillman alongside young kick-butt rock guitarists like Jack White, Alexi Laiho, and Synyster Gates.
Every spare inch of wall and ceiling was covered with posters. Even the windows were plastered with them, lending the room a dark, gloomy air.
Gabe called it his âGabe-Caveâ and said it was his own personal haven of tranquillity and inspiration. But Mickey wondered how anyone could live in the place without having a perpetual migraine from all the wild colors assaulting the eyes.
âI could go out there and pitch today,â Gabe continued, his voice rising, âbut the stupid doctorâs got my mom brainwashed. The whole thing is ridiculous!â
He grabbed his glove off the desk and walked over to the full-length mirror on the wall. After studying his reflection for a moment, he went into his windup, pretended to uncork a fastballâand promptly yelped in pain, grabbing his elbow.
âYeah, youâre fine, all right,â Mickey said. âWhatâs the matter with that doctor? Whereâd he get his medical degree from, anyway? Saying you have something wrong with your arm? What a quack that guy is!â
âShut up,â Gabe growled. âWhose side are you on, anyway?â
He slammed his glove on the floor and plopped morosely on his bed. He put his hands behind his head and stared up at the ceiling.
âA couple days of ice and rest and Iâd be fine,â he muttered. âInstead, I have to miss the whole second half of the season. And the dumb doctor didnât even X-ray the elbow! Shouldnât you at least take X-rays before making a diagnosis that ruins a kidâs life forever?â
âWell, at least youâre not overreacting,â Mickey said, grinning. He ducked quickly as Gabe fired a pillow at his head.
It was the day after the Orioles practice and Mickey had stopped by to see if he could cheer up Gabe. His plan wasnât working out too well so far.
Briefly, Mickey recounted the events of the previous dayâs workout, including the surprise announcement that a new kid named Zach Winslow with a real live arm was now the Oâs number one pitcher.
Looking at Gabeâs downcast expression, Mickey wasnât sure what bothered his bud more: the fact that he was done for the year, or the fact that he had been replaced so easily with a hotshot who could blow batters away with an eighty-mile-per-hour heater.
âOh,â Mickey said, âI should probably tell you this, too. The new guy calls himself Zoom.â
Gabe rolled on his side and cocked an eyebrow. âZoo?â
âNo, Zoom,â Mickey corrected. âZ-o-o-m.â
Genre:
-
PRAISE FOR HOTHEAD
". . . just the ticket for readers who've worked their way through Dan Gutman and Matt Christopher but are still a little shy of Matt de la Pe a and Carl Deuker. "âBulletin of the Center for Children's Books -
PRAISE FOR HOTHEAD
"Written with Ripken's obvious knowledge of the game, Conor's story rings true, with plenty of good baseball action. If Conor's not always in good spirits, the novel is, with likable characters, lively baseball action and the usual dreams of playing in the big leagues-in Conor's case, at Camden Yards. Ripken and Cowherd, like Conor and his Babe Ruth League Orioles, make a winning team. "âKirkus
- On Sale
- Mar 1, 2016
- Page Count
- 224 pages
- Publisher
- Little, Brown Books for Young Readers
- ISBN-13
- 9781484727898
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