Disclaimer: I do not own The Sandlot or any other of the subsequent movies.

Summary: The gang heads to Garber's, the local malt shop, and bumps into -- you've guessed who -- George Phillips.

A/N: Thanks to the reviewers! It's appreciated!

"Only your real friends will tell you when your face is dirty." --Sicilian Proverb

July 3rd, 1964

"The great Hambino is at the plate." Ham spit into the dirt next to the plate and dug in, purposely getting dirt flying all over the place. He turned his head slightly towards me and smirked, laughing at my discomfort. I was catching today, and he was trying very hard to make my job more difficult than it already was.

"C'mon, Ham!" shouted Squints. He shoved his glasses back up his nose and scowled at his friend. "My clothes are going out of style!"

"They already are, Squints!" chorused the rest of the team.

I shook my head, smiling beneath the protective gear. I put down a sign -- the good ol' number one -- and held out my glove to DeNunez. "Easy out, Kenny!" I shouted, glancing for a split second at Ham's face. He looked annoyed. Good.

DeNunez went into his stretch, and then fired into my glove. Ham swung and missed, nearly swinging himself all the way around.

"Whoa, nice hit, Hambino," I said, casually flicking the ball back to DeNunez. "That went, like, all the way to the fence."

"Shut up, Jamie." He dug in again, but this time didn't bother to make the dust fly around. He was too angry to sabotage me. But he wasn't angry enough to stop himself from pointing at the left field fence, a smug little smile replacing the red face he had on before.

We didn't take him seriously. We all burst out laughing, even Benny, and disregarded the fact that he obviously wasn't kidding.

DeNunez went into his windup. His forehead glistened slightly with sweat. His cap was on backwards, and I noticed him squinting from the sun. His shirt was sticking to his back from the sweat, and you could tell he was sweating profusely. Then everything went out of slow motion and the ball came zooming towards both me and Ham.

Ham grunted and then swung, the ball smacking directly into the sweet spot of the bat. He finished his swing, watching the ball fly towards exactly where he pointed. With another smug smile, he tossed the bat to the side and started running.

More like lumbering.

"Aw, Ham!" I heard Smalls say. "Thanks a lot." He started clambering over the fence to get the ball. There was no need to worry about the Beast, or whatever it was called. Squints had told me that the dog went wherever Mr. Myrtle went, and since they were both on vacation, it didn't matter whether or not we hopped the fence to get some balls.

I scowled and tossed my helmet to the side. The sun was hotter than ever today. It was getting close to something almost painful. I wiped the sweat from my forehead and oh-so-subtly sniffed my armpits for stink. There wasn't any, so I stood protectively over home plate when Ham finally decided to come lumbering down the baseline.

"Took you long enough," I stated flatly, grabbing my helmet and yanking it back on. "C'mon, it's Benny's turn. Hey, Benny!" I waved him in with my glove. "It's your turn!"

He came jogging in, tossing his glove to the side. He grabbed a bat, gently shoved Ham out of the way (he was still at the plate) and then took his stance. "You comfortable back there?" he asked. He tapped his sneakers with the tip of the bat, looking down at me.

"Yeah," I said. "Why wouldn't I be?" I held out my glove for DeNunez and shouted, "Easy out, easy out!" I wanted to get Benny rattled. See what he could do under pressure.

The ball came towards us. Benny didn't even move a muscle. He kind of glided when he swung, whacking the ball towards shortstop on a deathly one-hop. He recovered, glanced back at me with a sort of grin/smirk thing, and then faced DeNunez again.

"C'mon, Kenny! Strike him out!" I put my hand down behind my ankle and waited.

They probably didn't even need me behind the plate. Benny hit ball after ball, sending them each soaring towards the outfield or somewhere in the infield. He was a great hitter, and he didn't even show the almost natural overconfidence that came with being a great hitter. He missed once, and that was just about it. He missed on a low and outside curve, which made him scowl for a second, scrape the dirt, and then set back up again. He didn't even say anything to me. He just turned right back around and did what he did best.

It was getting close to three o'clock, and we were taking a break. We were all covered in dirt, sweat and grass stains; but that was all part of the game.

"Great hitting back there." I yanked off the helmet and put it underneath my arm. I took off my glove and tossed it to the ground. I made sure it landed on the grass, so the glove didn't get dry and dusty.

Benny just looked at me like a best friend would; fondly. He nodded, and a small smile lit up his face. "Great hitting yesterday, too. I mean, for you, not for me." He blushed, maybe because he thought I was thinking he was overconfident and liked to talk about himself.

I didn't think that. Not at all.

"I knew what you meant," I said. I started walking towards the lean-to and beckoned for him to follow. I wanted to keep talking. "You're the best hitter on the team though." I cast a glance towards the lean-to, where Ham was making the team laugh. "No matter what Ham thinks."

I got him to chuckle. "You're alright," he said, as if it were an honor. "For a girl, I mean."

I raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?" I knew he was just joking, but I wanted to go along with the joke. Maybe make him just a little bit uncomfortable. I wanted to see how he handled it.

"No, I didn't mean it like that." He rubbed the back of his neck. "I was wondering…Do you wanna go to Garber's with me and the guys?"

"Garber's?" I repeated. Sounded like a diner or something. A place with a jukebox.

"Yeah. Garber's is a malt shop on Main Street. You wanna come?"

I considered. I had nothing better to do at all today other than play baseball and hang out. Mom wouldn't expect me home anytime soon, and it looked like we were done playing at the sandlot today. Garber's was on Main Street, too, and Main Street is the safest place in the neighborhood.

I can't believe I just said that, and it's 1964. Everybody's safe, everywhere.

"Yeah, sure!" I thought I sounded enthusiastic enough. I happen to have a problem with being sarcastic and enthusiastic. I think it's a defect.

"Cool. C'mon, let's go see what those blockheads are doing." He led the way to the dugout (or lean-to,) his shirt billowing behind him. He played with his LA Dodgers cap, taking it off and putting it back on.

Timmons Number One tossed both me and him a Coke, and we sat down next to each other. The space where we sat down was really small, because none of them had decided to move over to make room. I was practically on top of Benny, and we were blushing and muttering "sorry" to one another. I shoved Squints out of the way and plopped down next to him, praying that my blush didn't show through the dirt on my cheeks.

"Hey, Jamie," teased Ham, "your face is all red!"

"You think?" I glared at him and fought back the urge to smack him.

"Ham, relax, alright?" snapped Benny. He was obviously annoyed from the whole 'on top of each other' thing. "Are we going to Garber's or what?"

"Yeah-yeah," said Yeah-Yeah, blowing a bubble with his gum. "Why wouldn't we be going?"

Benny rolled his eyes and got up, taking his Coke with him. He led the way to the gate, followed faithfully by the posse.

I shoved my unfinished Coke into the cooler and hurried after them, glancing back at the dugout. It looked lonely without the bunch of us shoved into it, but Garber's seemed like an excellent opportunity to cool off.

We got to Garber's in record time. Outside the malt shop was a bike rack, and when the guys saw the bike rack, they started freaking out.

"Why are they here, Benny?" Ham looked more mad than ever before. He stopped in front of the rack and glared at the fancy bikes, his green eyes smoldering. "Phillips better not do anything stupid today. I'm annoyed right now."

"We can all see that, Hammy," I said, clapping him on the shoulder and heading inside behind Benny.

Inside the malt shop it was slightly crowded. Kids and some adults sat in booths and at the counter, sipping malts and milkshakes and soda floats. The jukebox, as I predicted, was blasting a Beatles song, and some people were dancing in the corner.

In a booth down a little bit, a group of boys stood up. They were dressed in red and blue baseball uniforms. The uniforms were so clean that I doubted that they even played a game today. They started coming down towards us, scowls on their faces.

"What're you doing here, Rodriguez?" The one in a letterman's jacket chuckled and narrowed his eyes at us, especially Benny. "Tired of playing with a bunch of misfits?"

"Shut up, Phillips," snarled Benny.

"Yeah?" Phillips surveyed the group, his expression not changing…until he saw me. "Oh, Rodriguez," he said, shaking his head, "you've lowered your standards way to far. Playing with a girl? You've got to be kidding me! Girls can't play baseball!"

"Oh yeah?" I said, folding my arms. "Nice tights. Did your mommy pick them out for you?"

"You watch yourself, girly," he said threateningly.

"Uh-huh, I'm so scared of a guy in tights." I folded my arms and raised an eyebrow at him. "I could totally take you on."

"In what?" A mischievous glint sparkled in his eye. "In kissing?" He puckered his lips at me.

"Ew, no way, perv." I leaned against the bar (not an alcoholic one, mind you,) and stared him down.

Phillips was okay-looking. He wasn't extremely handsome, like Joe Jonas or whatever. He was more like, Nick Lachey good-looking; halfway between extreme hotness and just 'oh, he's got a nice face/bod/legs.' He probably thought he was the hottest human being on the face of the planet (like every boy does) and that every single girl on the face of the planet would like to go out with him.

Yeah. Not every girl.

"What're you doing hanging around with these squares?" Phillips leaned against the bar in the same way I was, with one eyebrow arched. "We play on a real baseball field."

"Okay," I said, getting off the bar and folding my arms defiantly. "First you insult me and Benny, who just happens to be my friend and insulting a friend of mine is not a step in the right direction. Now you're flirting with me? Get lost, loser."

My guys burst into cheers, and I felt a reassuring hand on my shoulder. I knew it was Benny, and I grinned back at him. It felt good to win a fight against a boy.

And I knew, that from then on, Benny would be my best friend. I had his back and he had mine. We were connected.

We chased those guys out of the malt shop. They rode away on their fancy bikes, looking back at us and scowling. I ordered everyone milkshakes and passed them around, and we all sat in booths.

"Nice going, Jamie," said Ham appreciatively. "You did okay. For a girl." He peeled half the straw wrapper off his straw and aimed it at Smalls. He blew into the straw, and the wrapper shot in Smalls' eye.

"Ow!" shouted Smalls, smacking a hand to his eye. "You've blinded me!"

"You're killing me, Smalls!" yelled Ham incredulously. When Ham yelled, his freckles stood out more because his face flushed. "You can't take a straw wrapper?"

I was sitting next to Benny, smushed up against the wall because there were three of us in one seat. It was me, near the wall, Benny in the middle, and Smalls all the way at the end. I leaned against my elbows and surveyed this whole thing while sipping my excellent black and white milkshake. There's nothing like a genuine '60s malt.

Across from us was Yeah-Yeah, Squints, and Ham. Ham was leaning almost across the entire table, talking quickly to us about how Mickey Mantle, Yogi Berra and Sandy Koufax could be their own team and not need any other players.

"Koufax is the best pitcher ever!" he was saying, waving his arms around.

"What about Roger Clemens?" I asked.

Ham paused. "Who?" he said, apparently not believing me.

I wanted to smack myself. You're in the sixties, dummy. There is no Roger Clemens yet! "Oh, nothing. Um, it was just some guy I knew back home," I covered quickly. "He was an incredible pitcher. Fourteen strikeouts in one game."

Ham rolled his eyes and continued on his tirade.

It was starting to get dark and we all had to start heading home. We paid for the milkshakes and headed home, walking back towards the residential area of the Valley.

"You coming tomorrow?" Benny asked me. He walked easily, with his hands in his pockets. He walked loose-hipped, relaxed. Brown eyes flicked towards me, waiting for my answer.

"Of course!" I said, falling into step with him, letting the others go ahead. "Why wouldn't I? Baseball's the best game in the entire world. Who would miss it?"

He grinned and looked away.

"Are you coming tomorrow?" I asked him. I knew the answer already, but I couldn't think of anything to say in reply to that question.

"Of course!" he said, imitating me.

"Ha," I said. I shoved my hands into my pockets like him, relaxing my stride.

"Hey, see you guys tomorrow!" The Timmons Boys waved and headed into their house.

"Bye, guys!" I yelled. I pulled my cap further down on my head.

Suddenly, it was yanked off, and I watched Benny run down the street with it. "Hey!" I shouted, running after him.

He was fast, I'll admit. He was really, really, really fast. No wonder they called him "The Jet." I wasn't faster than him, but I tried my best to get my hat back. "Come back here!" I yelled, my lungs burning and my heart thudding in my chest.

We raced down the block, him a few strides ahead of me. We were nearing my house, and finally he was slowing down. I pumped my arms harder and leaped, like I was stretching my foot at the last second to touch first base. I snatched my hat from his hand and tumbled to the ground.

"You okay?" he said breathlessly, coming to a stop and looking down at me. He stuck out his hand and helped me up.

"Thanks for the workout, Rodriguez," I said, winking at him. "I'll see you tomorrow." I started up the walk to my house.

"Yeah, see you!" He said, and started jogging back the way he had come.

What I realized right there was the fact that he basically "walked" me home, even though we'd passed his house before. He didn't let me walk home alone.

What a gentleman, I thought to myself. "Mom, Dad, I'm home!" I shouted.

No, I corrected myself, what a friend.