January, 2002

"Welcome to the 2002 New Jersey State Championship. It's a perfect day for –"

August rewinds the tape.

Number seven, August Hahn, is up to bat.

And it's a screaming line drive! It's off for the races now folks –"

Pause. Rewind. Repeat. Rewind.

He has a memory for each moment. Every time the images on the screen flicker, the crowd roars in his ears. When he closes his eyes he sees the field, emerald green and dust-smeared, the lines of the diamond bleeding into the dirt. His cleats, scuffed at the toes. His uniform tight on his back. Sweat down his collar. Cheers beating against his ears.

"He's on first base, and he's leaning – he's leaning – he's off, rounding second. Here he is on third – he's going for home. He's going all the way! All the way, folks, all the way! He's going to make it – but here comes the ball, thrown in from the outfield...

And he's sliding – he's close – wait, wait, did you see that, he's –"

Metal cold through his gloves, the grip chafing against his fingers. Black-streaked eyes of the pitcher, arm winding back to throw, leg kicking out behind him.

One last, fatal ping of the bat against the ball. The shredded red strings curling out against the night sky as it surges away from him. Tension pulsing tight in his legs as he digs his cleats into the dirt and tears towards first base.

"Hahn is rounding second, heading for third – number eight is chasing the ball into the corner – we might have a play at the plate –"

His coach sitting in the shoulder of the field. "Run like hell, August, run!"

Thoughts of his father, and their last argument about baseball. Sweat tastes like salt in his mouth. He isn't really thinking because everything blurs together, but from under the brim of his helmet, the last sharp curve unrolls before it all comes together.

"The throw from outfield is on line. Hahn ran through the stop sign and is going for home All the way, folks, all the way! He's going to make it – but here comes the ball ..."

Rewind. Repeat. Voices scramble. Images turns to pixels, to colored fuzz, to clear-cut shapes again.

"And he's sliding – he's close – wait, wait, did you see that, he's –"

Blood. Blood like metal in his mouth and a ringing in his ears louder than the smash of bat against ball. The catcher's knee comes up as his helmet slides sideways. His vision tearing in half.

The collision.

Frantic thoughts – get up, get up, walk it off, shake your ankle, August, shake your ankle – and his legs, refusing to move. His ankles that won't turn and his toes that won't twitch. Fear, confusion, monsters that scream louder than the crowd around him.

Lights like blinders cut stripes across his vision. The red-helmeted catcher's head bends over his face. His coach, shouting something, and the crowd, fallen silent.

"Number seven, August Hahn, is down – with a knee to the head –"

Rewind. Repeat. Eject.

August moves his finger off the remote.

At least now he can turn the television off. That much is still possible.

White walls cage him in. This hospital is colorless, tasteless, faceless – far removed from the vibrant, heady field he walked onto almost one month ago. Beeping drifts down from the monitor. Beside the bed, his heart rate spikes, jagged red lines rising.

He closes his eyes, silence dense against the darkness. The tape sits in the television. He can't get up to take it out, can't stand to change it, can't hook his fingers through the tape and pull until it unravels.

"And he's down, folks. He's down."

Beneath the sheets, his legs lie still.

Today there are no crowds to cheer for him, no coachers to worry or catchers to scorn. The bases are loaded and he lies alone under the spotlight of his last valiant effort to win. For his father. For a scholarship, and all the scouts. For himself – to prove that this last game would be his best.

Game over.

Why did I want that so badly?