Jack sank down onto the hard plastic seat. There was sanctuary in this cathedral, open to a sky so blue it hurt his eyes. Inhaling the scent of the freshly cut grass and hearing the solid thwack of the ball against the wood of the bat, for a moment he was back in Comiskey Park.
Third base line. His father at his side. Eddie Robinson at bat for the White Sox. Back to an illusory instant when the world seemed bathed in the golden light of a perfect summer day, and just for nine innings, the S.O.B. had simply been his dad. Here in this place, several hundred miles and fifty years later, on a bright September afternoon, he still was.