That’s when I come over, too, having been trailing Jason at an inconspicuous distance all morning—the shed with Goslin, the bank visit, the parking lot handoff, back to the stadium. I could have offered him a ride, I suppose, but Jason’s been so jumpy, so suspicious of everyone, it’s not likely he’d have accepted anyway. A fan must’ve seen us gathering and called the cops, or an ambulance, I’m not sure which—but Jason and I both hear the wail of sirens at the same time, how it slips in between the notes of Lester’s organ. My reaction is relief, relief that help is coming. And, if I’m being honest, there’s a sliver of selfishness there, knowing I won’t have to watch someone die today.

And what about Jason? What does he think? When he hears the wail he leans over the limp boy and squeezes him tighter. “Hang on, little man,” he whispers into the boy’s tiny ear. He caresses the boy’s damp cheek, leaving streaks of blood. He’s cut up his hand pretty bad, smashing that window. That’ll be stitches, a week out of the lineup—if not more. I take off my shirt and hand it to him. He wraps it around his mitt.

“Hang on,” he says again. Jason Goodyear means it as some sort of hope for that wilted, red-faced kid in his arms, but goddamn it if his words couldn’t have been meant for himself, if they couldn’t have been meant for us all.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

To everyone at FSG, especially Emily Bell, Jackson Howard, Brian Gittis, Alex Merto, Hannah Goodwin, Abby Kagan, Mitzi Angel, and Jonathan Galassi—thank you for believing in this book, and giving my made-up baseball team a beautiful home field. Jessica Friedman and Jin Auh, thanks for the early support and the unwavering belief in this book. Harry Stecopoulos was a wonderful early reader—thank you for seeing the book’s promise and making it better. I offer the same thanks to Adrianne Harun. Steve Kettman and Dan Hoyt, thank you for being my ideal readers, and Sandy Alderson, thank you for your careful review from the field. I worked on this book at the Hermitage Artist Retreat, the Betsy’s Writers Room, and the Sewanee Writers’ Conference—thank you to everyone at these organizations for the support. Thank you as well to everyone at The Paris Review, particularly Terry McDonell, for encouraging me through the book’s proverbial ninth while I was just starting off at TPR.