The Pitch

He was dreaming about the pitch again when the phone woke him. He lifted it off the bedside table.

"Is this Stanley Maher?" a woman's voice asked.

"Yes."

"Sir, do you know my father, Michael Etheridge?"

Stanley couldn't suppress a chuckle. "Yes, ma'am. I'm familiar with the man. I've never had the pleasure of meeting his daughter though."

"You wouldn't have. We haven't been on speaking terms until the last couple of weeks. He asked me to call you. He says he has something important to tell you and wants to do it in person."

"What's your name, Michael Ethridge's daughter?"

"Sandra." Her tone suggested she was surprised he wanted to know.

"Why are you calling me instead of him?"

She took a deep breath. "He's dying," she said. "He hasn't been able to get out of bed for the last three days. He's got cancer. I'm not even sure what kind. He won't talk to me about it except to say he's known for the last six months."

"Don't feel bad, Sandra. He didn't tell me either."

An overlong silence stretched between them.

"Mr. Maher?" she finally said. "Are you going to come? I'm afraid he's not going to last much longer. He can barely speak as it is."

"I'll be there," he said.

"Thank you. It will mean a lot to him."

He lay in bed another ten minutes thinking before his wife finally stirred. "Were you talking on the phone?" she asked.

"It was Mike's daughter."

"Mike's daughter? I didn't realize he had a daughter."

"Apparently they've been estranged until the last couple of weeks."

"What did she want?"

"She said he's dying of cancer and isn't going to last much longer. He wants to tell me something in person. I need to be there today."

"You're going to go to New York today? Just like that?"

"Yes. I have to. He would do the same for me."

"Are you sure about that? I'm sorry that he's dying, but I can't pretend to not believe he's one of the most selfish, self-centered, arrogant men I've ever known."

"I know how you feel about him, Sharon. And you're not alone. But there's a different side to him too. He's a good man down deep. He loves me like a brother. All that other stuff is just a mask."

"You know what, honey? If you wear a mask long enough, you can't take it off."

"I know, but I'm going to see him."

****************************************

Three hours later, he was boarding a plane in Atlanta bound for New York. He saw the flickers of recognition on the faces of a few people passing by, but thankfully no one approached him. He wasn't disappointed to find his celebrity waning with time. At his window seat, he watched the city below him turn to miniature as the plane lifted off. He let his mind drift. He rarely allowed himself to think about that day although he'd been forced to talk about it plenty in the thirty five years since on sports talk radio and television shows. It was the single most painful event of his life. It had shaped him as only the most painful things can.

He'd been in his fourth year of Major League ball that year and he'd had a better season than he could have imagined possible. He was the Braves' closer: the guy who came into the game in the ninth inning when the team was leading and needed someone to shut the other side down for good. He'd finished the season with a league best 45 saves and 101 strikeouts. People were saying he was a shoo-in to win the Cy Young Award as the best pitcher in the league for the 2011 season. He'd always known he had the potential to be good, but this magnitude of success amazed him.

He'd grown up on a South Georgia farm and taken only a casual interest in sports until he started high school. That's when he discovered he could throw a ball harder and further than almost anyone he knew. He hadn't considered playing an organized sport until his P.E. teacher, Mr. Brant, who was also the baseball coach, approached him in the lunchroom. He'd been watching the boys play flag football and was impressed by the fifty yard bombs Stanley was tossing with a little more than a flick of his right wrist.

"Why don't you come out and play baseball with us this year, Son?" he asked. "You've got a great arm on you. I bet we could turn you into a hell of a a pitcher."

"I'll think about it. My dad probably needs me to help with the planting though. It's that time of year."

"Tell you what, Son. See if your dad will let you come to practice one day and just see how you like it."

"Okay, Mr. Brant."

A couple of days later, he stayed after school for practice. His dad grumbled about needing him even that day. The north field needed harrowing and he was only one man. But he supposed it could wait until the weekend.

The first time he threw a pitch off the mound, he'd tripped and fell. The ball kicked up dirt three feet in front of the plate. The other kids guffawed at how spastic he'd looked trying to wind up like the coach showed him. Stanley's face turned beet-red.

"Forget about the windup for now," Coach Brant told him. "Just throw the ball to the catcher."

Fueled by anger and adrenaline, he threw the ball as hard as he could. This time it hit the catcher's mitt with such force that the boy who caught it yelped in pain. After the catcher put on two batting gloves under his mitt to cushion his hand, Stanley threw about ten more that split the middle of the plate with the same velocity.

"Boys," Coach Brant said, "I think we found us a pitcher."

Stanley had found something too. He'd found out being a pitcher was what he was born to be. It was like discovering he'd owned a magical gift all his life and never known it. His father allowed him to play, grudgingly at first, but after watching his son strike out eleven batters and pitch a shutout in his very first game, he was sold. Stanley's baseball career had begun.

After his senior year, he was drafted by the Atlanta Braves in the very first round and after three seasons of mowing down minor league batters, he got the call to join the Braves. They tried him as a starter at first, but Stanley struggled in that role. He had a pattern of pitching well, even dominantly, for the first couple of innings, but as the game wore on, his arm would tire and his velocity would suffer.

"You've got to hold back a bit," the Braves pitching coach, Frank Zion, was always telling him. "You can't expect to not tire if you're out there trying to hit triple digits on the radar gun with every pitch. You've got to conserve."

Stanley didn't doubt the wisdom of this but couldn't bring himself to follow through with it. Every game he'd come out pumped up, ready to spit fire at the opposition, but after about the third or fourth inning, his fastball would be down by almost ten miles per hour and his control would suffer as well. After a disastrous outing in Philadelphia in which he gave up eight runs and three homers in two innings, he lost his spot in the starting rotation.

"Let's try him in the bullpen," the Braves manager, Leo O'Steen suggested. "If he can come out and sling smoke for an inning or two and have a seat, we'll be in business."

"Sounds like a plan," Zion agreed.

Stanley didn't care for the idea at first. He saw it as an insulting demotion. But when he found he truly could let his hundred mile per hour fastball fly and throw in the splitter he was starting to perfect as well, he saw the wisdom of his coaches' decision. He blossomed and made the all-star team during his second year in the league. In his third year, he was given the role of closer and in his fourth, he and the rest of his teammates became the talk of the major leagues. They won 104 games that season and cruised to the National League pennant where they faced the mighty Yankees in the 2011 World Series.

**************************

Looking down on the fluffy clouds from his seat thirty thousand feet in the air, Stanley smiled to himself as he thought about what a different person he was in those days. He was brash, cocky, and reckless. He said and did anything he pleased. He wondered how anyone had been able to stand being around him. Maybe that was part of what made that team so good though. They played every game like they had no doubt of winning and barely offered their opponents the slightest respect. They were head and shoulders above every team in the National League that year and wanted everyone to know it.

But the Yankees team they met in the World Series was their equal. The two teams battled toe-to-toe like heavyweight boxers for six games. Every game was decided by a single run. The seventh and deciding one was no different. The fire-balling left-handed rookie, Jimmy Kent, had started the game and pitched a gem through eight innings. The mighty Yankees had managed only three singles, a walk, and not a single run against him. The Braves led 3-0 going into the ninth on the strength of a three-run homer by their usually light hitting shortstop, Sammy Linds, in the sixth.

Kent looked strong to start the ninth as well. He got the first two batters easily. Mateo Cruz, the Yankee shortstop grounded to third and Sandy Jackson, the catcher, flied out to left. With two outs and the bases empty, the Yanks sent a pinch hitter to the plate. The capacity crowd rose to its feet. chopping their foam tomahawks like a single entity as Rafael Christos, the Yankees' last hope, dug in. Kent wasted no time getting the count to 0-2 with two fast strikes on the outside corner. But then Christos fouled off four straight pitches before Kent finally missed the plate, not once, but three consecutive times. Christos fouled off two more pitches on a full count before walking on a ball off the inside corner that could have gone either way.

With a runner on first and two outs, the next batter, Michael Reynolds, hit a clean single. Then Javier Linares walked on four pitches. With two outs, the Yankees had worked the bases loaded and the crowd, cheering themselves hoarse, grew restless. The Braves manager ambled to the mound at a snail's pace to give Stanley a few extra moments to get loose in the bullpen. Kent grimaced as he handed the ball to his skipper, disappointed not to finish the job. But the crowd cheered wildly for him as he walked to the bench. The kid had pitched his butt off and they still were still confident of winning as their ace closer, Stanley Maher, trotted onto the field. One out was all they needed, but the crowd was well aware that the man who loomed on deck, Michael Etheridge, was not going to be an easy one.

Stanley remembered how Etheridge strode to the plate that night as casually as if he were playing in a spring training game rather than the seventh game of the World Series. He seemed almost sleepy as he stepped into the batter's box and took his stance. But there was nothing sleepy about the man's eyes as he stared Stanley down. He was like a sleek, ebony jaguar poised to pounce on its prey. Also in his fourth season as a pro, he'd terrorized American League pitchers all season long, hitting 45 homers with 140 RBIs. The match-up was a baseball fan's dream: the best relief pitcher in the National League facing down the best hitter in the American League with everything on the line.

Stanley remembered thinking he would have been intimidated by Etheridge if he wasn't so completely confident in himself. As it was, he'd wound up and thrown a fastball that painted the black of the outside corner like a second coat. Etheridge watched it pass and when the umpire called it a strike, he made no reaction except to stand up straight for a moment and squeeze his bat. On the second pitch, Stanley threw him his best splitter and Etheridge swung for the fences. But he whiffed as the ball fell off the table just as it reached him. The radar gun read 97 and the crowd could barely contain themselves.

The count was 0-2 and Stanley had Etheridge right where he wanted him. Nicky Ferguson, the catcher, came to the mound to discuss strategy.

"Stan the Man, you need to waste this one," he told him with his mitt over his mouth to prevent a couple of million people from reading his lips. "He's sitting dead red and he'll swing at anything in the neighborhood. Throw it half a foot outside and I guarantee he swings and misses and we're celebrating."

"Let me bust him inside, Nicky. That's the last thing he expects. Fastball in on his hands. He'll be frozen and we'll get the call."

"Try that if he takes the waste pitch. No need for nothing sweet Oh and two."

"Get back down there, Nick. I'm striking him out right now."

Stanley remembered Nick studying his eyes for a moment, tapping him on the shoulder with his mitt and going back behind the plate. In the years since, he'd spent many hours wondering what would have happened if he'd throw the pitch where Ferguson wanted it. Instead, Ferguson moved his target on the inside corner and Stanley pitched it there. Etheridge swung and made contact.

Jammed him. That was Stanley's initial thought. Etheridge hit the ball not on the sweet spot, but just above the trademark. But as he turned to see if the leftfielder had a play on it, he was shocked to see how far the ball was carrying. His teammate kept going back all the way to the warning track. He made a desperate leap for it there, but it dropped over the fence just beyond his reach. Michael Etheridge had won the Series for the Yanks with a grand slam home run. Etheridge circled the bases and was mobbed by his teammates at the plate. The Yankees celebrated as the Braves looked on in shock. Stanley felt helpless to do anything but stand on the mound in a state of disbelief.

"I jammed him," he kept muttering to himself. "How could he have hit a home run when I jammed him?"

Eventually, Nick walked to the mound and put an arm around his shoulders. "Shit, man," he said. "That's baseball. It was a good pitch and he hit it out. What the hell are you gonna do? That's just baseball."

"Should have wasted it outside like you said," Stanley told him.

"Don't tell yourself that kind of shit, Stanley. You'll go crazy like that. Let's get out of this hellhole."

He didn't know how long he would have stood there shell-shocked if Nicky hadn't helped him off the field. He honestly couldn't remember anything after that. He didn't remember undressing or showering after the game. He didn't remember driving home. He did remember waking up the next morning and wishing it was all a bad dream. But one glance at the headline of the Atlanta Journal-Constitution told him otherwise.


Maher Blows It, it read in huge, black, block letters. Under the headline was a photo of him standing on the mound hanging his head with his hands on his knees after Etheridge hit the slam.

Maher blows it. For the rest of his life, the headline and the photo clung to his memory like an albatross. No matter what else he might accomplish, this is how he would be remembered: as the guy who lost a World Series for his teammates and the entire city....hell, the entire South for that matter. He might win the Cy Young award for the season. The Braves might offer him a hefty contract for the next one. But all of those things were hollow now. He was the goat. If he played in the league twenty-five years, if he made the Hall of Fame one day, this was still how he would be remembered: as the guy who lost the Series when it was all but won, the guy who snatched defeat from the jaws of victory. And there was nothing to do but live with it.

*********************************

"We will be reaching the New York area in about fifteen minutes," the pilot announced over the loudspeaker. "It's a beautiful day and we're looking at clear skies all the way to the runway. We and the crew want to thank you for choosing American Airlines this afternoon. We hope you've enjoyed your flight."

I was hardly on it, Stanley thought.

An old timer approached him as he waited for his bag at the carousel.

"My condolences, Mr. Maher," he said, offering a hand, and grinning ear to ear. "Should have wasted that pitch, you know."

Stanley had learned to be gracious when faced with such encounters a long time ago although a part of him still wanted to ask such people if they wanted to be reminded of the worst day of their life thirty-five freaking years later.

"Tell me about it," he said, putting on a smile and shaking the man's hand.

The boob's wife took their picture, landed a couple of more barbs Stanley had already heard about a thousand times and went on his way. Watching him go, Stanley figured it would be this way as long as he drew breath.

He rented a car to drive out of the city to Mike's place. As he drove, he let his mind wander again.

After the Series that year, Mike and Stanley's career went in opposite directions. Mike's star continued to shine while Stanley struggled. In his whole career, he'd never had control problems, but afterward, he found he couldn't find the plate with a flashlight and a map. He knew it was a mental block. He even hired a personal psychologist, but nothing helped. The Braves sent him to the minors for a rehabilitation stint around mid-season, but when his problems persisted, they traded him to the Boston Red Sox. He played for Boston a grand total of two months before they released him after a disastrous outing in which he walked four consecutive batters on eighteen pitches.

He bounced around the minors for about three years after that before finally calling it quits. After fiddling around with broadcasting for a couple of years, he got a call from the Braves' organization asking him if he was interested in coaching. Wanting to be back on the field again in any capacity possible, he accepted. He'd never thought of himself as a coach, but discovered that he loved it. The teaching aspect was what he enjoyed most. That and being able to wear the uniform of the team he loved again. Soon after taking the coaching job, he met Sharon. When they first met, she had no idea he'd ever been a baseball player. That suited Stanley just fine.

He couldn't deny that the pitch Etheridge hit out of the park changed him personally as well. He was no longer the cocky, devil-may-care scoundrel of his youth. He had been humbled. He became more soft spoken and kinder. He noticed people liked him better because of it. He and Sharon married and had two children. One of his daughters had given him a grandson and the other had one on the way. He had to admit that in spite of being the ultimate goat and washing out of baseball, his life was good. He supposed everything happened for the best, but even thirty-five years later, he couldn't suppress the pain of losing that game.

Michael Etheridge's life took the opposite track. His twenty year career made him a Hall of Famer. He finished with 550 homeruns and a .300 career batting average. In spite of his greatness, he'd bounced around to six different teams and developed the reputation of being difficult and querulous. He feuded with teammates, fans, managers, and umpires, and was known to be aloof and unapproachable off the field as well.

The first time Stanley met him off the field was in Etheridge's final playing season. A radio personality, Doc Griffin, who had a nationally syndicated show, contacted Stanley to see if he was willing to sit down with Mike and discuss the home run that wrecked his career. He'd initially balked at the idea, but decided to do it after discussing it with Sharon. She said it might be cathartic. He arrived ten minutes early to the studio, but found Etheridge already there, immaculately groomed and wearing a tailored pinstripe suit. Stanley sat next to him as they waited for the host to call them in awkward silence.

"How's it going, Mike?" Stanley finally asked. "You're looking awful fit for forty. You've put on a ton of muscle since the last time I saw you, but I don't think you look a day younger."

"I have to stay fit," he answered. "That's the only way I can still be playing at my age."

Stanley took it as a slight since he and Etheridge were the same age, but Stanley, who was growing a paunch, was obviously not in playing shape. The man ruined his budding career and now had the gall to insult him to his face as well. He was trying to think of a suitable comeback when Doc Griffin's assistant called them into the studio.

"So what was going through your mind just before you threw that fateful 0-2 pitch, Stanley?" Doc Griffin asked him on-air.

"Nothing at all except striking the SOB out and winning the damn World Series. I'd thrown him two pitches on the outside edge and figured I could sneak one by him on the inside corner on the third pitch."

"You didn't consider wasting one about a foot outside to see if he'd take a swing at it?"

"You sound like my catcher, Doc. To be honest, that is what Nicky Ferguson wanted me to do on that third pitch, but I was too cocky for my own good in those days and I talked him into going for the strikeout."

"Any regrets about that decision, Stanley?"

Stanley chuckled. "Not at all," he lied. "I went for the strikeout and big Mike here hit it out. Sometimes you get the bear and sometimes the bear gets you. That's what it's all about."

"What about you, Mike?" Doc asked. "What was going through your mind when that pitch was on the way?"

"It looked big as a grapefruit coming out of his hand, Doc. I just hit it and the rest was history."

"Was it the pitch you were looking for?"

"You know, I've never been the kind of player who looked for pitches. I just see the ball and hit it. That's the way I've always played the game."

"You know, after that game, you guys' careers went on different tracks. Stanley, you were beset by control problems that eventually led to you being released, and Mike, you went on to have a Hall of Fame Career. How much of that was due to that pitch and that home run?"

"That's a question I've asked myself ever since," Stanley answered. "If it did have a lasting affect, it certainly wasn't a conscious one. Baseball can be a slippery eel and it did seem to get away from me after I thought I had that sucker by the tail at the beginning of my career. I could speculate all day about whether it gave me some sort of psychological block, but I don't know. I'd like to think that wasn't the case, and to blame my lack of success afterward all on one pitch feels like a cop-out to me. So I'm not going to make that excuse, Doc."

"What about you, Mike?" Doc asked "Did that home run vault you into having a great career?"

"Not at all," said Etheridge. "A career doesn't hinge on a single pitch or a home run. Not if you have the kind of strong mind you need to thrive in this game. Only two things have allowed me to have the career I've enjoyed: God-given talent and a self-driven work ethic."

"No one's ever questioned your talent or your work-ethic, Mike. But plenty of people have questioned your ability to get along with teammates, managers, and fans. What do you have to say to those people?"

"I don't have anything to say to them. With me, what you see is what you get: the good, the bad, and the ugly. I turned forty years old a couple of months ago, Doc. And I'm not about to change my ways now."

"What would you say to people who accuse you of arrogance, Mike?"

"Like I just said, I don't have anything to say to those people. Did you have any more questions about baseball, Doc?"

The interview continued in a similar vein for another ten minutes. Stanley managed to get in a few words here and there, but overall, he felt like a third wheel. Inwardly, he was seething. In a few short minutes, Mike Etheridge had insulted him in about three different ways. When the interview ended, he confronted him as they took the elevator back to the main lobby.

"So what you were really trying to say, Mike? That I washed out of baseball because, unlike you, I'm weak-minded and untalented? Is that about right?" He tried to say it in a lighthearted tone, but couldn't keep the anger out of his voice. He'd never disliked anyone upon first meeting them as much as he detested Mike Etheridge.

"Hey, Stan, it was just an interview. I like to give them a little spice, you know? Makes it more interesting."

"You know, I used to be a redneck. Back then, I would have popped you in the mouth for saying that kind of shit. As it is, I'm fast losing my civilized ways."

"Let me know up front, Stanley. Is this a racial thing?"

Stanley felt his blood pressure spike and his face turn beet-red. He thought he was really going to punch the man right in the mouth and actually felt his fist balling up to do the deed when the elevator reached the lobby and the door opened. A group of businessmen were waiting to board. They looked at Stanley and Mike with puzzled expressions. He knew the anger on his face must have been clear as day. For some reason, the whole situation seemed absurdly comical as soon as he stepped off the elevator. He just wanted to get away from Michael Etheridge as fast as he could and never see the asshole's face again. But just as he was going to walk away, he touched him on the arm.

"Hey man," he said in a conciliatory voice. "We got off on the wrong foot. Let me buy you a drink." A part of Stanley still wanted to punch him, but the edge of anger was gone.

"Sure," he said. "Why the hell not?"

They found a bar and drank beer while they munched on a bowl of peanuts and watched a baseball game on the big screen TV.

"Sorry for what I said in the interview. It was uncalled for. Sometimes I catch myself saying shit and I say to myself, damn, Michael, no wonder everybody thinks you're a conceited, self-centered son of a bitch. Every word out of your mouth supports the notion."

"You're trying to tell me you're not a conceited, self-centered son of a bitch?" Stanley asked.

"No, man, I'm really not. It's just the words I say. It's not how I really feel."

"So change the words you say."

"I've been telling myself that for about four decades now."

They drank four beers apiece while they talked and Etheridge bought them all out of guilt. They talked about everything except that World Series game and somewhere along the way, Stanley realized they were becoming friends. After they left the bar, they shook hands and Etheridge said,

"I'm glad we did this, Stan the Man. It meant a lot to me. Someone will call us to talk about this thing again and you should take them up on it. I'll be nicer next time. I promise. I don't want to fight no redneck like you anyway. You take care of yourself and tell your wife and kids I said hello."

"Will do, Mike. It was nice to meet you too."

Mike was right. Every few months he'd get a call from someone asking he and Etheridge to come talk about the pitch and the homer on their show. He and Mike always went out for a beer or three afterward. People commented on the good chemistry the two of them seemed to have and how they genuinely liked each other. Talking about the thing wasn't his favorite subject, but it turned into a good source of supplementary income, and he always looked forward to seeing Mike. Mike only met Sharon once, but once was enough for her to hate him. Stanley and she had met Mike and his college-aged girlfriend at the time at a restaurant in Atlanta. Mike was on his worst behavior, boasting about his baseball exploits and making back-handed jibes at Stanley along the way.

"You know what, Mike," his wife had finally told him with her lips pursed in the way Stanley had learned meant she was good and truly pissed. "You might have been a great ball player, but you are one of the rudest, most classless human beings I've ever met."

Mike laughed it off, but Stanley had taken Sharon home before she tried to carve the man up with her steak knife.

*******************************

Stanley couldn't help but smile about the incident now as he reached Mike's house in the suburbs. It was too large of a house for a single man and looked to be in general disrepair. The yard was unmowed and the hedges in desperate need of trimming. He rang the doorbell and Mike's daughter answered it. Stanley immediately recognized the intensity of her father's eyes. She was an attractive, slender woman, but looked as if she'd lived too much too young.

"Hi, Mr. Maher," she said. "Thank you for coming. Hurry. I think he's been holding on just to talk to you. I don't think he's got much longer." She led him to the bedroom.

Stanley gasped when he saw him. Mike's eyes were closed, but he opened them when Stanley walked in and seemed to perk up the slightest bit. His every breath was a labor and Stanley could hardly believe the brittle, shrunken skeleton lying there was the same impeccable, chiseled man he'd become friends with. He wondered how long he'd suffered in silence with this disease before it got the best of him. It took Stanley a moment to overcome his shock and realize Mike wanted him to lean down so he could speak to him.

"What was your first thought when I hit that ball?" he whispered into Stanley's ear.

"I thought I jammed you," Stanley answered.

You couldn't believe I hit it out when you jammed me like that, could you?"

"No, Mike. I really couldn't. It seemed like you must have had superhuman strength to do that."

Stanley wasn't surprised. It seemed somehow just like Mike to want to talk about the home run in his dying breath. Mike gathered his strength to tell him something else.

"You could say that," he said. "I was on steroids. That's why I was so strong."

"Steroids? You couldn't have been. They tested us like crazy. You couldn't have gotten away with it."

"I got around the tests. I knew how. I cheated, Stan. My whole career. I hit that homer because I cheated. You deserved better, Stan. I'm sorry."

"I don't believe you. You're just trying to make me feel better about it. It would have come out if you were juicing. People would have known and it would have come out."

Mike shook his head and Stanley thought it was the saddest gesture he'd ever seen. "Not if you were as careful as me. All my drugs, all my records are in the basement. Go find them."

He reached for Stanley's hand and held it with surprising strength. "I'm nothing but a cheater, Stan. Everything I ever accomplished was a lie. But I just want to thank you for being my friend anyway." He let go of Stanley's hand, closed his eyes and died.

Stanley stood in the room for several minutes, unable to speak. Sandra stood next to him with dry eyes. "I suppose I have to plan a funeral now," she said.

He noted her coldness, but supposed Mike was never much of a father to her. "I'll help you," he told her.

"Thank you," she answered. "Are you going to look in the basement?"

"I'd rather not. He might have been delusional there at the end. Besides, if he was telling the truth, I'd rather not know."

"It's true," she said. "I saw all that stuff when I went down there the other day. Syringes, drugs and tons of notebooks with records he kept."

Stanley nodded, feeling tears on his cheeks. "Did you love him?" he asked.

"Not until the end."

*********************

Stanley spoke at his funeral.

"Michael Etheridge became one of my best friends," he said. "He was a hard man to know, but I came to understand him, perhaps as well as anyone, during the time I knew him. He was passionate and proud. He loved his sport and took great pride in his accomplishments. He was the ultimate competitor. Many found him to be aloof and difficult to get along with, but that wasn't the true essence of Mike. The Mike I came to know was good humored, kind and very loyal. Even though speaking about the home run he hit against me thirty-five years ago was one of my least favorite things to talk about, spending time with Mike was one of the things I enjoyed most. I learned many things from him and I will miss him. I just wish he'd let more people see the side of him that I got to know. If they had, everyone would have loved him as much as me."

*************************

"What did he want to tell you so badly?" Sharon asked a few days after the funeral. Stanley thought about it. He thought about taking all Mike's syringes, drugs, and record books out of the basement and building a bonfire with them in Mike's backyard while his daughter watched.

"He just wanted me to know how thankful he was that we were friends," he told her.

"Maybe I was wrong about him after all," she said. "He seemed like a lonely man. I'm glad you were his friend."

"He was a good man," Stanley said.