There was a weekend in June when Noah's travel-ball tryout conflicted with a doubleheader Cameron wanted him to watch from the dugout rail as a guest. Denise left the choice to Noah. He chose the tryout because wanting a future meant sometimes declining a comfort. He played nervous and competent. He made an error that ate him alive for two innings and then started a double play that tasted like redemption served cold. Afterward a coach with a clipboard said, "We have a spot if your mom can make the dues work."
Denise made the dues work by selling the better television and keeping the worse one. Noah did not learn that detail until years later. Love, in their apartment, often wore the disguise of logistics.
Cameron drove to two of Noah's travel games that summer, sitting alone in folding chairs with a ballcap low over his eyes so he would not become the story. After one win he took Noah and Denise for burgers and listened to Noah narrate every pitch as if testimony could preserve the afternoon. After one loss he said almost nothing until the parking lot, then: "That pitcher owned the outer half. Next time you move up two inches in the box and take it from him. Don't donate the plate. You live there."
Noah moved up two inches the next weekend and doubled twice.
Frank Callahan's daughter visited the stadium once — a woman in her thirties with Frank's eyes and none of his scowl. She watched Noah take BP and said to her father, loud enough for Cameron to overhear, "So this is the kid from the video."
"Don't start," Frank said.
"I'm proud of you," she said. "For being wrong out loud and then sticking around."