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throwing out first pitches: Flynn at a minor-league game somewhere in the South, and former vice president Mathias at a Yankees–red Sox matchup.
    I couldn’t help noticing that they didn’t pitch nearly as well as Governor Brandon. Flynn’s pitch went wild and nearly beaned a bystander, while Mathias didn’t throw the ball hard enough to even reach the catcher at home plate.
    The anchor continued, “On a separate note, let’s check in with Governor Brandon, who threw out the first pitch at a Little League game in Ohio last night—”
    â€œWhat first pitch? It wasn’t even a game,” I said. “It was practice!”
    â€œNice arm,” Christopher commented as he watched the clip. “She’s got heat on that thing.”
    â€œTell me about it,” I grumbled. “I couldn’t hit a one.”
    â€œNot much else went right for the Fairstone Freezers,” the reporter said.
    â€œFreezers?” Christopher exclaimed. “Can’t they even get the name right?”
    â€œThese kids may not be headed to nationals, but they’ve got as much guts as any other team out there.” Then they showed me playing shortstop, grabbing a ball, and rocketing it to Emma at first. “The shortstop’s name is Aidan Shriekingbaum. Throwing to first, where the governor’s daughter also showed some serious skills.”
    â€œSchroeckenbauer,” Mom said. “It’s not that hard to say!”
    â€œYou may be hearing more about him in the future,” said the reporter. “This is the same kid who saved the governor from falling scenery earlier in the day.” While he spoke, the replay of my heroic deed played on a large screen behind him. They had it in replay mode, so it repeated over and over, then backward. “He’s fast on his feet, America.”
    Christopher looked at me with newfound respect. At least I think it was respect. I didn’t get that look much, so I wasn’t sure I’d recognize it if I did. “You’re just an average kid,” he said, sounding jealous. “Why do you get featured?”
    I shrugged. “I must have done something right.”
    â€œYour fielding is good, but only because of what I’ve taught you,” said Christopher.
    â€œRight,” I said. “It has nothing to do with the fact that I’ve studied the game on my own or practiced or anything.”
    â€œExactly,” Christopher agreed, pushing his chair back from the table. He refilled his bowl of cereal while Mom changed the channel to a local morning show.
    â€œCheck this out,” she said. “You’re all over TV.” She switched from channel to channel. “I’ve been dying for you to get up so I could show you! You know the phrase ‘overnight celebrity’? That’s you, Aidan.”
    On every station, the news of the hour started with a clip of me: Me pushing Governor Brandon to safety. Me talking about saving jobs. Me playing “America the Beautiful” on the clarinet and squeaking on the high notes. Everyone kept calling Ohio a “battleground state,” whatever that meant. Did people really fight during presidential elections? The last time it had happened, I’d been only eight, and I hadn’t noticed. I thought they just went into voting booths and pressed buttons.
    Each reporter had a different, corny way of putting it.
    â€œWhat started as a minor scuffle and a mistaken identity has turned this young boy—”
    â€œI wish they’d quit calling me a young boy,” I said. “I hate that. I’m not young.”
    â€œNice band uniform,” Christopher said, laughing. “They carried you? I totally missed that. Oh, that’s awesome.”
    Stupid girly spats on my feet. Stupid band hat that looked like a sheep on my head.
    â€œWhat one young Ohio boy did today could change the course of the election,” said a