Cameron rose, dusted one knee with a glove he was not wearing, and looked at the umpire the way professionals look at obstacles that have forgotten they are temporary.
"Just wait and see."
Noah exhaled. The word that came out was small and whole. "Okay."
Frank shrugged, mask still under his arm, and stepped back toward the plate with the weary permission of a man who had decided the comedy would proceed with or without his blessing.
"Fine. Let's see it."
A staffer in a polo shirt rolled a pitching machine into place on the mound and adjusted the wheels. The catcher — a backup in full gear, mask already down — settled into his squat behind the plate and patted his mitt twice. Somewhere in the stands a chant started and died. Noah set his feet the way he had practiced in empty parking lots and cracked driveways, bat up, eyes forward. The machine whirred. The ball left the chute in a white blur under the bright field lights, stitching spinning, summer evening holding its breath around a boy who had been told he would become a joke —
and the pitch was already on its way.