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celebrity in the family and still referred to him as her son-in-law. She watched him on the field, enchanted.
    I had spent fifteen years rooting for Jarret. I knew how much pitching well meant to him. He made a lousy husband and a sometimes irritating ex, but his skill on the mound demanded respect.
    Although the sun had set, the temperature registered seventy-four on the scoreboard as we sang two choruses of “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” for the seventh-inning stretch. As we sat down, the first Dodger batter walked to the plate. Jarret followed him out of the dugout with his bat, and took a few practice swings in the warm-up circle.
    The lead batter got to first base on a walk. Jarret came to the plate, took another practice swing, then set his stance. He swung at the first pitch and missed. He let the second pitch pass him for a called strike. One more strike and he would be out.
    Mom, Dave, Robin, and I stood. A heart-pounding rush of nervous energy coursed through me.
    The next pitch crossed the plate dead center. Jarret swung, and the ball and his bat connected with a sweet
crack
. The ball flew high just inside the first-base foul line and over the head of the first baseman. And as the outfielder leaped to the wall to make the catch, the ball cleared the fence and bounced into the second row of the right-field bleachers for a two-run home run.
    The stadium erupted into a massive, earsplitting cheer. Jarret circled the bases toward home. Two women stormeddown our aisle, screaming and waving their arms, and as he crossed home plate, they hugged each other. Mom, Dave, Robin and I exchanged high fives, and fans throughout the stadium circled rally towels, baseball caps, and fists in the air.
    Dad and Nick slumped in silence, arms crossed.
    Jarret took off his batting helmet and disappeared into the dugout while the crowd continued to roar. Home runs by pitchers were a rarity. This was the second one I had seen Jarret hit in fifteen years.
    The two women who rushed the aisle pumped their fists and jumped up and down, yelling with the rest of the stadium for Jarret to come out for a bow. As they turned, chanting Jarret’s name at the Dodger dugout, I recognized both women from the gym. Gretchen, the brunette from this morning, and a nameless, streaked blonde I saw yesterday. Screaming for Jarret at high pitch, Gretchen wasn’t kidding about being a baseball fan.
    Relentless cheers brought Jarret out of the dugout before play resumed. He touched his cap in acknowledgement, then pointed up into the stands and blew a kiss in our general direction. I bent my head, chuckling.
He remembered.
    Mom leaned over to Robin and me. “Isn’t it sweet how the fans love him?”
    “Very sweet,” Robin said.
    The inning ended with the Dodgers leading by two runs. The Cubs’ defense cleared the field and the Dodger defense came out of the dugout and took their places. Jarret, the last player out of the dugout, jogged toward the mound.
    As he skipped over the chalk between third base and home plate, a white pigeon swooped off the home platebackstop fencing and dive-bombed straight at Jarret’s head. Jarret flinched backward onto the chalk line.
    Mom and I gasped together.
    “Oh, no,” Mom said.
    “Damn,” I said.
    “What?” Nick said.
    “Maybe he didn’t notice,” Mom said. “I hope he didn’t notice.”
    “He noticed,” I said. “See how he’s stomping his foot? He’s trying to shake off the chalk.”
    “What happened?” Robin hunched forward, staring down at the field. “Why is Jarret doing a rain dance on the mound?”
    “He’s superstitious about stepping on the baseline,” I said. “He believes a myth about the chalk between third base and home plate carrying runs. If he wears chalk to the mound on his shoe, the chalk will make him pitch runs to the opposing team.”
    Nick leaned over to Dad. “Then this should be very interesting. Let’s see how the phenom pitches with chalk dust clouding his