"Good," Noah said. "Because I was going to keep it anyway."
They laughed, and the sound carried across the empty outfield like a residual cheer.
Denise was waiting by the player gate with a foil packet of diner fries — free, still, because some coupons become traditions. Frank Callahan joined them without being invited, which was how Frank showed affection. They stood in a loose circle under a sodium parking-lot lamp, four people bound by a single evening that had refused to stay single.
"You know what I hate most about that night?" Frank said suddenly.
Noah raised an eyebrow. "Being wrong?"
"Being recorded being wrong," Frank said. "That clip is going to outlive me." He paused, chewed a fry, and added, more softly, "Good. Maybe some other umpire watches it and shuts his mouth before he names a kid a joke."
Cameron lifted an imaginary glass. Denise wiped her eyes and blamed the onions from the diner even though there were no onions. Noah held the bat across his shoulders like a yoke he had chosen and found light.