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2013-12-26 - 8:08 p.m.

Home for Christmas, and after lunch I asked Jake if he wanted to have a throw and he said sure. I'd just gotten a new glove and wanted to try it out and I'd seen Ryan's glove in his car and so I told Jake to grab that one.

Jake's put on weight again. He's been having a hard time, has been giving everyone around him a hard time, but I think he's a little better now. He has been living in my parents' basement for half a year now and though he's got a girlfriend now who's made him stop the drinking, he's got the DUI stuff to deal with and the court-ordered meetings and he's 41.

And he's got no job and isn't looking for one and maybe I've been having a hard time too if you want to know about it, but out on the street, first eight feet away and then one hundred twenty and then two hundred, Jake, the former college pitcher, raring back, yelling "two-seamer!" and letting loose with a hellacious screaming laser beam that stings me in the palm, I can almost imagine another time, long ago. And I, not ever as good as Jake once was but not bad for an American man either, when I find the seams with my fingertips, hop-step, and let fly a gently rising, whistling, falling little gem of a rocket that pops right in his glove, shoulder warmly burning, tree-air in the nose, I think: if only everything went this smoothly.

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