You were just winding up to pitch when the sharp whirr of bicycle tires broke through the calm.

A group of boys coasted in like a bad omen, tires skidding slightly in the dirt as they came to a stop just outside the field. Their bikes gleamed with chrome, their shirts crisp, and their expressions sharp and smug. The Sandlot crew’s laughter faded as the boys looked up — every single one of them recognizing the unwelcome visitors instantly.

The Tigers.

Even without an introduction, you could tell these weren’t just some random kids out for a ride. Their posture, the way they looked down their noses at everyone like they were already bored being here — these were the jerks Benny and the others had warned you about. Especially him.

Jordan Phillips.

He sat atop his bike like he owned the world, arms casually crossed over his handlebars, one leg kicked out, chin lifted slightly like he was above it all. His sun-kissed hair curled a little over his forehead, and despite the lazy expression, there was something sharp in his gaze — like he was always calculating, always judging.

Then he opened his mouth.

"It's easy when you play with a bunch of rejects and a fat kid, Rodriguez."

The Sandlot kids went dead silent.

Then, like a slow-building storm, everything shifted. Gloves were dropped. Bats hit the dirt. Every single one of them — Benny, Ham, Squints, Yeah-Yeah, all of them — marched across the field toward the row of cocky Tigers, their shoulders squared and jaws clenched.

Benny stepped forward, eyes locked with Jordan’s. "Shut your mouth, Phillips."

But Ham was already puffing up behind him, his face flushed red and chest heaving with rage. His voice roared out across the field, "What’d you say, crap face?!"

Jordan gave a cool, barely-interested smirk, like he wasn’t even impressed by Ham’s fury. His tone was laced with mockery and superiority. “I said you shouldn’t even be allowed to touch a baseball. Except for Rodriguez, you're all an insult to the game.”

That did it. You saw Ham’s body tense like a coiled spring, fists clenching at his sides, shoulders squared. He stepped forward, chest out, trying to look as massive and threatening as possible — and with his build, it wasn’t hard.

“Come on! We’ll take you out right here, right now! Come on!” Ham barked.

The Sandlot kids erupted behind him like a loyal pack, fists pumping in the air. “YEAH!!”

But Jordan didn’t even flinch. He just looked down, smirked with that same slightly disgusted curl of his lip, then looked back up through thick lashes and replied, “We play on a real diamond, Porter. You ain’t good enough to lick the dirt off our cleats.”

Ham stepped forward, ready to throw hands. “Watch it, jerk!”

Jordan fired back instantly. “Shut it, idiot!”

Ham: “Moron!”

Phillips: “Scab eater!”

Ham: “Butt sniffer!”

Phillips: “Puss licker!”

Ham: “Fart smeller!”

Phillips: “You eat dog crap for breakfast, geek!”

Ham snarled, not backing down for a second: “You mix your Wheaties with your mama’s toe jam!”

Again, the Sandlot kids roared in agreement: “YEAH!!”

Phillips leaned forward a little, eyes gleaming now, venom in his words. “You bob for apples in the toilet... and you like it.”

That was it.

Ham narrowed his eyes, breath shallow with fury. He glanced once at Benny like asking for permission, but Benny didn’t stop him — he knew what was coming.

Ham stepped up, and with a tone full of venom and finality, he hit him with the worst insult a baseball kid could possibly hear.

“You... play ball like a girl.”

Time stopped.

The air froze. Even the cicadas went silent.

The Tigers’ smug expressions shifted just slightly — a flicker of offense, confusion, maybe even doubt. Jordan’s eyes flicked from Ham to Benny to the rest of the Sandlot crew...his confident demeanor faltering slightly, his dark brown round eyes seeming heartbroken.