Excerpt:

If anyone ever asks me why I love the game of baseball (and I wish someone would, no one ever asks me questions I can answer), I'd start with the smell of my mitt. If they wrinkled up their nose and said, "Gross!" or something, I'd make them bury their face in it a minute and take a deep breath. It smells sharp, but in a good way, like barbecue sauce, or campfire. It makes your eyes and mouth water. I know, it's cow skin, which is pretty gross when you think about it, but then who besides Daisy doesn't love to smell burgers or ribs grilling on an open fire? There are a thousand reasons why I love baseball, but if I had to give just one, I'd probably say it was standing out in right field with my face in my mitt, sniffing the old skin of some dead cow.

Maybe it's better no one asks.

The scoreboard says we're down 5 to 3. We scored three runs on one hit. Marty walked three Brewers and hit two. He fell apart earlier than usual. Too bad. I was really counting on a rout. Now I'm beginning to worry that we might actually win and have to play a tiebreaker. Ugh. My hopes for failure are pinned on the arm of Fred Perez. If he doesn't kill me, he just might save me.

Steve Ruffa leads off for the Tigers and looks ready for some payback, especially against Angel, who spiked him. He swings so hard at the first pitch he nearly falls down. When Angel walks back up the mound, he's got a big grin on his face. I'm grinning, too, which I don't do much out here. Steve takes a desperate lunge at the next pitch, a ball no one in their right mind would swing at (it would have looked okay to me), and it takes me a second to realize that he actually got a piece of it. It takes me another second to find the ball — it's blooping over second into right field — and another to remember that I play right field. By the time all these seconds add up, the ball drops in the grass a few feet in front of me. Error number fifty unless Mr. Villaescusa takes pity on me again.

I scoop up the ball — after only two attempts — and throw it in. Well, not all the way in. Joey has to come out from second and meet it halfway.

"Didn't mean to wake you up out there, Fruit Pie!" Steve yells at me from second base, his big hands cupped around his big mouth.

I give him a little smile and a wave as if to say, "Oh, that's okay!" I have no pride whatsoever.

Angel glares at me from the mound. I try to see the Professor's face inside the dugout, but it's too dark. The dugout, not his face. Well, probably his face, too. I do see Mom up in the stands, waving at me like I'm coming off an airplane or something. I pretend to be an orphan.

Mr. V calls it a hit. I'll have to remember to send him a little gift.

My pal Ernie steps in and slaps the first pitch toward first. If it gets past Levi it'll be extra bases for sure, because if it gets past Levi it'll end up out here in Extrabaseland. Fortunately, Levi shoots up in the air like he's on springs and snags the ball in the webbing of his huge first baseman's mitt. I could kiss him. When he comes down, he quickly pegs the ball to Isidro moving over from short to cover second and they catch Steve off base — a double play! Before Steve can vent his frustration, Isidro tucks his mitt into his armpit and races out to center field.