It’s 4:20 a.m., and actually June 23rd. Roy just dropped me off a little bit ago. The Pirates’ game ended a few minutes before eleven o’clock, but there was an accident on the highway leading out of Pittsburgh. Mike counted nine cars. It didn’t look as though anyone was injured, but the cars were banged up. It took forever to get home, and at one point we thought about staying the night, but we drove on instead.
Roy drove back, and the last thing I remembered before falling asleep with my head against the window, he and Mike were talking over and over about Willie Mays hitting three doubles. A foul ball came very close to us. Mike almost caught it, but a woman six rows up caught it when it bounced off the cement floor, over everyone, and into her lap. Mike and Roy brought their gloves. We
