As soon as he threw it, Timmins knew it was wrong. Wilcox swung and the baseball rocketed toward the left field wall.
Timmins’ future flew toward the parking lot along with the ball. Back to the minors if he was lucky. No chance his wife would reconcile. No Gold Bond endorsement. He pretended not to hear the jubilation of the crowd, inspecting an odd patch of grass near the pitcher’s mound.
As Wilcox trailed his teammates around the bases, the rising swell of cheers promised his heart’s desires. A sweeter contract. A Wheaties box. Timmins’ ex. Nothing could stop....
Above the noise of the crowd, the left fielder whistled. Forty thousand fans grew hushed. Timmins raised his head. Wilcox stumbled approaching first. Fifty feet from the wall, the baseball hung, then started drifting. Drifting. Drifting foul, fouler, foulest.
A collective groan filled the stadium as Wilcox trudged back to home plate. His feet, light as birds moments before, dragged anchor chains behind them.
Timmins, though, didn’t notice the despair. His toes started tingling. He found his wife in the stands, smiled. The minor leagues receded back to the Midwestern farm town where they belonged.
He had one more pitch, one more pitch to make it all right.
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