The Little League team was good. Really good. The nine mop-haired, lanky boys, clad in classic ‘70s harvest-gold uniforms, were undefeated this season. They had a shot at the pennant.

But then, devastation.

Their first baseman was sliding into home when he broke his shin in two places. Doctors operated. Wired his bones back together. The boys all signed his cast. Unless they could find a replacement, it was goodnight Irene.

The coach held tryouts. The whole team gathered. Every boy was anxious to find a new player who kick some proverbial posterior.

Two boys auditioned that afternoon.

The first was tall and strong. Square-jawed. Looked like he’d been shaving since age three. He was a natural athlete, wiry and agile, an RBI machine. Just wind him up and let him go.

The audition should have been over right then and there. But it wasn’t.

The second boy got his shot, too.

His name was Arnold. He was small, awkwardly built, and he walked funny. Arnold suffered from polio as a baby. He lifted the pantlegs of his blue jeans to reveal metal braces.

“Braces?” the coach remarked. “You can’t run with those, son.”

“I can, sir,” the boy replied

So, the coach put him through drills. True to his word, the kid could run with the braces. He was slow. His gait looked more like skipping than running, almost like a strange dance. But he was doing it.

Next, the coach put Arnold in the infield.

Arnold missed half the balls hit to him, but he dove in the dirt, without care of injury, leapt as high as he could, and sprinted until he fell over and got mouthfuls of dust. Arnold showed more hustle than 50 boys his age.

Then, it was time for hitting. The tiny boy stood at the plate. Bat held at his ear. Out of breath from exertion. His little shirt was drenched.

That’s when the assistant coach whispered into Coach’s ear. “You know Arnold’s got kidney problems.”

“Kidney problems?”

“Yep. He’s in the same class as my son, he had a bunch of operations last year. Almost died. He’s got one of his mom’s kidneys.”

The coach could hardly believe it.

Arnold hit the first few pitches easily. He wasn’t a bad hitter. The coach could tell he’d been practicing. The coach told the pitcher to throw him something harder to hit.

The windup.

The pitch.

CRACK!

Arnold caught the tip of it. Not bad.

Next, the coach gave the pitcher a very different signal, which said: “Brush him off the plate.”

The boy-pitcher looked at the coach with wide eyes as if to reply, “What? You want me to graze him?”

Coach nodded.

The windup.

The pitch.

The ball did more than buzz Arnold. The pitch drilled Arnold squarely in the cheek. Arnold fell backward into the dirt. The team rushed toward him.

But before anyone could help the boy off the ground, Arnold shoved them all back. Arnold got to his feet. He spit, angrily. And he quietly assumed his batting stance, once more.

Everyone stared in mock disbelief.

The coach told the pitcher to throw the next one high and inside. Just to see if the boy would flinch now.

The pitch whizzed so closely past Arnold that it brushed the bill of his cap.

Arnold didn’t even blink.

When the audition was over, the coach looked over his two prospects.

One boy, a natural-born athlete. The other, a foot shorter, mopped with sweat, frail, and wearing leg braces.

The coach rested a hand on Arnold’s shoulder. “You worked hard out there today, son. But do you really think you can play ball with bigger kids?”

There was blood on Arnold’s lip. His shirt was translucent with perspiration. And he was wheezing.

He looked the coach in the eye and said, “Yessir, I do.”

The coach lowered himself to Arnold’s level. “But son, you’ll be the smallest on the team, you’ve got physical limitations, what makes you think you can succeed?”

Arnold replied, with a solemn little face. “My mom says God don’t ask whether you’ve succeeded, but whether you continued.”