"They almost pulled me up," Cameron said. "Almost is a word that can eat you if you let it. I decided it would feed me instead. Almost means I was close enough to touch. Close enough means possible."
They resumed the bullpen sessions. Frank Callahan was back too, same black gear, same skepticism sanded down by a year of having been publicly wrong about a ten-year-old. He still did not do warmth easily. He did accuracy. On opening week he told Noah, "Your stance doesn't suck anymore," which from Frank was a parade.
That summer's arc bent around a different fan challenge — Noah was not invited as a novelty this time but as a junior guest for a charity night — and around Cameron's hottest month at the plate since his draft year. Local papers wrote soft features. Denise laminated one clipping and put it on the refrigerator next to a school permission slip and a past-due notice she was trying to outrun.
In July, Ray Bennett appeared without warning in the stands during a Tuesday night game. He wore a polo shirt that tried too hard and a smile that arrived late. He found Denise and Noah near the concourse after the seventh and said he was "in town for work" and "heard about the baseball." Noah stood holding Cameron's old bat — still his, still taped, still honest — and felt the old wanting rise and collide with a newer, sturdier thing: the knowledge of who had actually shown up.
Cameron came out of the clubhouse tunnel, saw the geometry of the moment, and stopped at a respectful distance. Ray looked at him, then at Noah, then back.
"You the guy from the video?" Ray asked.
"I'm the guy who handed him a bat," Cameron said. "He's the one who swung it."