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focus.”
    I rubbed my knees, watching the field. When Jarret performed on the mound, he had a canny ability to shut out distractions around him. Jeering crowds couldn’t shake him. All-star batters didn’t intimidate him. Being behind on the count, hung-over, shivering from the cold, or sweltering in the heat didn’t faze him. But the run-laden chalk on his shoe would shimmy up his leg and into his head.
    And it did. Jarret walked the first two batters and hit the third on the shoulder with a wild pitch, loading the bases. The next batter, the Cubs’ left-handed leader in runs batted in, came to the plate.
    “They have to take him out of the game,” Dave said.
    “They won’t. The Dodgers only have righties warming up in the bullpen. Jarret is their leftie specialist. They have a better chance leaving him in,” Dad said, nudging Nick.
    The Dodger catcher and first baseman went to the mound to calm Jarret down. He bobbed his head as he listened to them. The catcher handed him the ball with an encouraging tap on the shoulder. I knew their assurances wouldn’t work. Jarret was freaked, and the worse he pitched, the more freaked he became.
    On Jarret’s second pitch, the Cubs batter cleared the bases with a grand slam home run. The manager took Jarret out of the game and he left the mound to lukewarm applause and a few jeers from the crowd.
    The Cubs won the game five to three. Dad and Nick exchanged fist bumps and smug smiles.
    “Season’s not over. We’ll get you next time,” Dave said.
    “I’m happy for you, Walter,” Mom said, kissing Dad’s cheek before they filed into the aisle. “You got your birthday wish—your team won.”
    Dave, Nick, and Robin followed them out. As I tagged behind, Gretchen and her blonde friend climbed the steps toward me in dejected silence.
    “Gretchen,” I said. She glanced up. “I saw you at the gym this morning. I didn’t have a chance to introduce myself, I’m Liz Cooper.”
    “Cooper?” Gretchen tilted her head.
    “Are you related to Jarret?” the blonde said.
    “I used to be. He’s my ex-husband. Tough loss tonight.” I stepped into the aisle and climbed the stairs with them.“Jarret pitched a great seventh inning. Bad break on the eighth.”
    “I hope he remembers his home run and forgets about the rest of the game,” Gretchen said.
    “He looked pretty happy rounding the bases, didn’t he?” I said.
    The blonde stopped and turned. “Pretty happy? Didn’t you read the note on the scoreboard? He’s the only Dodger pitcher to hit a home run this season. The fans adore him.”
    “But you saw the kiss he blew into the stands, right?” Gretchen said.
    I smiled, amused by the delight on her face. “I did. And don’t worry about his attitude. He’ll make a comeback with his pitching game. He always does. It’s a long season.”
    Mom and Robin met me at the top of the stairs. “Liz, are you meeting Jarret at the pub later?” Mom said.
    I exchanged quick good-byes with Gretchen and her friend. As they disappeared into the exiting throng, I said to Mom, “Believe me, Jarret would rather hang out with his pals at Fifth Base than with any of us. Especially tonight.”
    Robin, Mom, and I followed the crowd to the escalators with Dad, Nick, and Dave leading the way. When we reached the field level, Mom pulled me to the side. “I feel bad for Jarret. Someone has to cheer him up. You should call him, Liz.”
    “Not my job anymore. If you’re concerned about him, call him in the morning. I have a feeling he’ll be busy tonight.”
    Jarret soothed his losses with rebellion. Back in the minor leagues, he broke training with a few beers and wentto bed. When he entered the majors, the beers became scotch or pain pills. Age and wear on his arm only served to escalate his dejection over losing. During his worst slump, a disastrous road trip with the Braves, I called his hotel room to comfort him and a woman answered. The next day he swore I’d called the wrong