"I thought, okay. I thought, watch the ball. I thought, even if I miss, I will have tried in front of everyone, and trying in front of everyone is how you stop being afraid of becoming a joke."
Then he would smile, the way people smile when a scar has turned into a map.
"And then I didn't miss."
The stadium empties differently after charity nights. The lights stay on longer. The grounds crew moves slower, as if reluctant to erase the footprints of something that mattered more than the official box score. Noah and Cameron walked the warning track once around, talking about nothing urgent — knee weather, diner coffee, a prospect in A-ball Cameron had been asked to mentor the way he had once mentored a ten-year-old with duct tape on his sneakers.
Near the place where the padding still held a faint family of scuffs from years of challenges and BP mishaps, Noah stopped.
"You ever regret handing me the bat?" he asked.
Cameron considered the question with the seriousness it deserved. "I regret every at-bat I overthought. I regret a girl in Chattanooga I didn't call back. I regret listening to a coach who told me to change my load when my load was the only honest thing I had. I do not regret the bat."