Coach Duncan waits until the Branstead team has cleared the field before he gathers us along the first-base side. We sit wherever we can. Bench, grass, even an overturned equipment bucket. All while we’re still dirty, sweaty, and happy with ourselves after a five-to-three win.

He lets us enjoy that feeling for roughly ten seconds.

“You won,” he says. “Good job. At your current level, you’ll still get torn apart at the national tournament.”

"Aaand there goes the feeling."

Nobody talks. Even the last few Cloveshire families lingering in the stands remained quiet, though that might only be because Coach has the kind of voice that makes unrelated people feel like they're part of it.

"Not that they can hear him completely."

He pointed toward the field with his clipboard. “Your defense kept this game under control. You communicated, backed up throws, and finished with an excellent play. That triple play was clean.”

A few heads lift.

“Hey, hey. Don’t look so proud yet. One excellent inning doesn’t erase the other eight.”

"And down they go again."

Coach moves on to our offense. Five runs sound respectable until he reminds us how many more we left on the field. We took bad turns at first, hesitated on balls that should have scored runners from second, and gave away at-bats by swinging at pitches we had no business touching. Apparently, my attempt in the fourth inning was a particularly disrespectful contribution to the sport.

Then he gets to Morgan.

“Morgan reached base three times today,” Coach says. “She did her job. A leadoff hitter starts the offense. The rest of you are supposed to finish it.”

He points his clipboard at the entire team.

“If she reaches second and stays there until the inning dies, that isn’t her failure. That’s yours. Stop admiring the fact that she got on base and start finding a way to bring her home.”

Morgan sits near the end of the bench, elbows on her knees, listening without a trace of satisfaction. She scored once. From the look on her face, she may be taking offense at the other two times we stranded her.

Coach keeps going. He talks about late reads, weak contact, careless leads, and the difference between stealing because you saw an opening and stealing because you became bored. The last one is directed at our shortstop.

By the time Coach finally dismisses us, I’ve learned enough about our shortcomings to believe the five-to-three score was a clerical error.

We collect our things and begin filing out of Cloveshire’s sporting grounds. Most of the team heads toward the main gate in little groups, still arguing over who deserves the most credit for the final play.

Then, I notice Morgan walking a little apart from them. Immediately, I thought, “This feels like an opportunity.”

I do have more questions about catching. Several, actually. I could ask about the third baseman’s positioning, the pitch call, or how early she realized Branstead had started its runners.

Those are all real questions. But they are also excellent excuses to spend another few minutes with her.

“Morgan!”

She stops and turns toward me. “What is it?”

That sounds a little severe, though with Morgan, it could mean anything from I’m listening to You have twelve seconds before I leave.

I catch up beside her. “Do you have time to talk about that last play? The triple play, I mean. I want to know how you managed to set the whole thing up.”

Her ears shift slightly as she thinks.

“I’m not sure where to start.”

“Anywhere is good.”

“Then ask me one thing at a time.”

“Great! Now…”

However, just as I was about to ask my first question, somebody calls from farther down the walkway. “Hey, Morg!”

It’s one of our teammates, Ren. He comes jogging down the walkway, his duffel bouncing against his hip. He is our ace pitcher, and, lo-and-behold, also Morgan’s brother. Together, they form a battery.

Technically, I think they’re half-siblings. They have different mothers, as far as I know. Then again, I always see both of their mothers together, and neither Morgan nor Ren ever bothers with the distinction. I may have misunderstood the arrangement entirely though.

Eh, what matters is that I also know that they're seven of them total siblings in their family.

Morgan sighs. “Wait a second.”

She turns toward Ren. “What do you want?”

“Mamasaid we’re going to the Bergbitten’s after Coach finishes with us.”

Somehow, Morgan knows which mother he means. I don’t. I'm an outsider.

“Right away?”

“Yeah.” Ren slows in front of us. “Is that a problem?”

“No. I’m thinking about how much food she’s going to get.” Morgan adjusts the strap on her shoulder. “I’m already tired. I don’t need physical exhaustion and a food coma at the same time.”

“Heh, you say that now, but you’ll still eat.”

“And I never said I wouldn’t.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“The problem is having both at once.”

Ren shrugs. “You don’t have a choice. We’re hungry anyway. You don't want to hurt Mama's feelings right?”

Morgan presses her lips together, perhaps searching for an argument strong enough to defeat dinner. Apparently, none exists.

“Fine. Wait for me by the gate. I’m finishing something.”

Ren glances in my direction as though only now noticing that Morgan had been speaking to someone before he arrived. “Oh. Sure. Fine by me.”

He jogs off again, wasting no time now that a diner sits somewhere in his immediate future.

Morgan angles her face back toward me. “Sorry. He’s such a child whenever our parents suggest going somewhere together. He can’t wait five minutes.”

I laugh. “That doesn’t surprise me. He acts younger than you most of the time.”

“For once, I agree.” Her mouth bends into a faint smile. “Hard to believe we’re the same age.”

“I know, right?”

Although, to be fair, Morgan acts as though she were born thirty years old and already disappointed in the rest of us.

She shifts her equipment bag again. “So, what were you asking?”

“Oh.”

“Right. Baseball. The extremely legitimate reason I stopped her.”

“What was going through your head during that last defense? You called everything perfectly.”

Morgan starts with the batter.

According to her, he had been shortening his swing whenever he fell behind in the count. Branstead’s coach also liked using a full-count hit-and-run whenever a batter shortened up to protect the plate. She’d noticed both habits earlier in the game and warned our third baseman to stay close to the bag.

The pitch wasn’t meant to create a triple play. Morgan clarifies that immediately. She called for an inside fastball because the right-handed batter had been late on Ren’s velocity all game. If he managed to get the barrel around, the location would still favor contact toward the left side.

Once the runners broke, the rest was easy to work with.

Morgan heard the crack of the bat and knew from its direction that the ball had gone toward third. She called for the bag because the runner there had committed too early. Our third baseman caught the line drive and stepped on third to double him off. Morgan then sent the throw to second because that runner had taken the largest lead and had the longest distance to retreat.

Three outs.

So… it wasn’t any sort of miracle for the blind catcher, or some weird power-up. It’s just her habits, timing, a pitch placed where she wanted it, and nine players trusting the same call when they’re unsure.

At least, that’s how Morgan explains it.

The way I hear it, she takes a mess of tiny details nobody else notices, fits them together inside her head, and leaves the other team wondering how she knew what they were about to do.

And the entire time she talks, I find myself listening a little too closely to the sound of her voice. So much that I end up caring a little less than I should about getting to my next question.