"You're gonna miss so bad this crowd'll remember it."
From the third-base side of the on-deck circle, a player in the home uniform walked over as if the dirt itself had invited him. Cameron Blake was twenty-six, tall without bulk, calm confidence written into the way he carried his shoulders and the easy set of his mouth. Sweat darkened the collar of his jersey. He had the look of a man who had struck out in worse places than this and had somehow kept the game inside his body instead of letting it hollow him out. He stopped beside Noah, knelt slightly so their eyes met at a kinder angle, and held out his own bat — taped, balanced, the wood darkened by use.
"Here, take this. You've got this."
Noah stared at the bat as if it might vanish. He traded the borrowed club for Cameron's with both hands, careful, almost ceremonial. The weight settled differently — not lighter exactly, but truer.
"You really think so?"
Cameron's smile was small and certain. "I know so. Just watch the ball."
Frank Callahan barked a short laugh that was not laughter. "You're serious?"