As the players took the field, Coop reached over and tugged on Keenan’s bright hair. “Pretty cool, huh?”

“It’s the best ever. Those are our guys, right?”

“Those are our guys. They’re gonna kick butt.”

Keenan giggled and leaned closer to the glass to watch the first pitch. “Kick butt,” he said with relish.

He didn’t, as Coop had expected, fidget, whine or make a general nuisance of himself. Because he was accustomed to working under noisy and confusing conditions, Keenan’s constant questions didn’t annoy him overmuch. At least, he thought, the kid had the good sense to ask.

Between innings, Keenan peered over Coop’s shoulder and sounded out the words that were popping up on the computer screen, and he did transfer some mustard from his hands onto Coop’s sleeve. But it wasn’t the disaster Coop had envisioned.

Coop even felt a quick tug of pride when the play-by-play announcer called Keenan over and let the boy sit in his lap for an inning.

Most kids would’ve been running around the booth begging for more candy. But this one, Coop thought, had come for the game.

“How come he didn’t run all the way? How come he didn’t?” Keenan shifted from foot to foot. His bladder was past full, but he couldn’t bear to miss a minute.

“The throw went to second, so he was forced out,” Coop explained. “See, the second baseman caught the ball and stepped on the bag to retire the side.”

“Retire the side,” Keenan repeated reverently. “But we’re still winning?”

“The O’s are up by one going into the top of the ninth. Looking at the batting order, I’d say they’ll put in a southpaw.”

“Southpaw,” Keenan repeated, as if it were gospel.

“A left-handed reliever. Probably Scully.” He glanced over and noted that Keenan was holding his crotch. “Uh, got a problem?”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Let’s hit the John—the bathroom.” He took Keenan’s hand and hoped it wasn’t too late. As they passed through the door, Scully was announced as the relief.

“Just like you said.” Keenan looked up at Coop with dazzling admiration. “You’re smarter than anybody.”

Coop felt a grin break out over his face. “Let’s just say I know the game.”

When they arrived home, Keenan was wearing a new Orioles jersey and carrying an autographed baseball in a pint-sized baseball glove. He waved a pennant in his other hand as he scrambled up the steps.

“Look! Look what Coop got me!” He barreled into his mother who’d barely walked in the door herself. “We went into the locker room with the real Orioles, and they signed the baseball for me. To keep.”

“Let’s see.” She took the ball and examined it. “This is really special, Keenan.”

“I’m gonna keep it forever. And I got this shirt, too, like they wear. And a glove. It even fits.”

Emotion backed up in her throat. “It certainly does. Looks like you’re all ready to play ball.”

“I’m gonna play third base, ’cause it’s the . . . the . . .”