By the third summer, Noah's name was known in the local youth circuit not as a novelty clip but as a shortstop with soft hands and a stubborn eye. College scouts had not yet arrived; that weather system was still offshore. What had arrived was a steadier self. He still heard Frank's first insult sometimes when he choked on a pitch. He had learned to answer it the way Cameron had taught him to answer a breaking ball: recognize, wait, decide.
Cameron's knee worsened. He played through September on anti-inflammatories and prayer, then scheduled surgery for October. Noah visited him in the recovery apartment with Denise's soup and a stack of printed box scores from Noah's fall league. Cameron, propped on pillows, read them like scripture.
"Your walk rate's up," he said, pleased. "Patience is a weapon. Most kids your age swing like the plate is on fire."
"Mr. Callahan says I'm still drifting on occasion."
"Mr. Callahan would say Ted Williams was drifting," Cameron said, and winced when he laughed.
The surgery went well. The rehab did not love Cameron back as quickly as he wanted. That winter he coached a bit for a community clinic and discovered he liked teaching almost as much as playing — a revelation that frightened him until he realized it did not have to replace the dream, only widen it. Noah attended the clinic as a junior helper, feeding balls, demonstrating footwork, kneeling beside seven-year-olds with oversized shirts and telling them, without irony, that they had this.
One afternoon a boy missed five pitches in a row and started to cry. Noah felt the stadium lights of his own tenth year flicker behind his eyes. He sat in the dirt beside the child.