He’d started at the top. Out of habit, I think. Eight years of habit.
He stopped halfway down. He stood there for a second with his hands in his jacket pockets, looking at the field.
Then he kept coming.
All the way down. Past the second row. Past the first.
He sat down on the bottom bench. Right next to me. Not across the bleachers. Right next to me.
On the mound, Wyatt wound up and threw a strike.
Graham stood up and cheered.
Loud. Both arms over his head. The first time I’d ever heard him make a sound at one of my son’s games.
On the mound, Wyatt turned around. He looked straight at the bleachers. At the bottom row. At the man standing there with both arms in the air.
For a second, he didn’t do anything.
Then he lifted his glove. Just a little. Just for a second.
