 
Hometown Heroes

A Novel By

Joe Gribble

Copyright 2013 Joe Gribble

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes: This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
The American's Creed

I believe in the United States of America, as a government of the people, by the people, for the people, whose just powers are derived from the consent of the governed; a democracy in a republic; a sovereign Nation of many sovereign States; a perfect union, one and inseparable; established upon those principles of freedom, equality, justice, and humanity for which American patriots sacrificed their lives and fortunes.

I therefore believe it is my duty to my country to love it, to support its Constitution, to obey its laws, to respect its flag, and to defend it against all enemies.

The Creed was written by William Tyler Page and was adopted by the U.S. House of Representatives on April 3, 1918.

I am an American.
Preface

Two events moved me to write this story. The first event occurred in the summer of 2011. That summer I was visiting the emergency room at the Wright Patterson Air Force Base Medical Center (I had dropped a steel beam on my foot and wasn't sure if I had broken anything, but that's another story). While I was in the waiting room, a man came in and walked up to the reception counter, not 10 feet from where I sat. He pulled a pistol from the waistband of his shorts and pointed it at his head. A USAF staff sergeant had just come into the area behind the otherwise empty reception desk. He was shocked and tried to get the man to calm down. The man with the gun told the staff sergeant, "I have PTSD and can't take it anymore." Then the man with the gun pulled the trigger.

Fortunately, I think self-preservation kicked in at the last second and his hand wavered. The bullet missed his head by a fraction of an inch, and he was eventually talked out of committing suicide. I found out later that this wasn't some kid just back from Iraq or Afghanistan—this was a senior soldier whose demons still haunted him.

I believe many Americans don't understand how prevalent injuries are among our returning warriors—both obvious injuries and "hidden" injuries such as traumatic brain injury (TBI) and Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) —or how devastating both the obvious and hidden injuries can be.

The second event that motivated me to write this story was a celebration we hold at the Dayton Dragons baseball field (Fifth Third Field). The Dragons are a Cincinnati Reds farm team, and the company I work for sponsors a pair of events, in coordination with the Dragons, to honor our military. During the game we welcome airmen returning from overseas, facilitate a video greeting from a deployed warrior to his family, and stand proud as a group of youngsters take their oath of enlistment. This, to me, is a very moving experience as the local community honors our heroes.

I hope you enjoy reading this story as much as I enjoyed writing it. If you are like me, and you get choked up when you hear the National Anthem or watch Old Glory pass by in a parade, I think you'll love it.

I'm donating fifty percent of my revenue from this book to military-friendly charities. You can help me decide which charities to support. See how at the end of the book. I look forward to your input.

Joe G.
Acknowledgement

This story is dedicated to all those who have gone before, and to all who will follow, in the defense of freedom and liberty.

We can never sufficiently repay those honorable men and women who sacrifice for the rest of us. They give their time, their sweat, and their blood. We owe them a great deal, and we must never forget.

My sincere thanks to Cindy Dodson and Johanna Gribble for their superb editing of this book. Any remaining errors you find are a result of me ignoring their suggested corrections.

Finally, thanks to my initial sponsors who were kind enough to evaluate the story and think it worthy of their endorsements, and for identifying worthy, military friendly charities to support with the revenue from the sales:

_Sparrow Six-Five_ (Facebook) supports National Veterans Homeless Support (www.nvhs.us)

_US Military_ (Facebook Group) supports Wounded Warrior Project (www.woundedwarriorproject.org)

_Dysfunctional Veterans_ (Facebook) supports The Warrior Connection (www.warriorconnection.org)

_Michael Schlitz_ (Through Burnt Eyes – Facebook) supports The Gary Sinise Foundation (www.garysinisefoundation.org)

_FreedomToActFilms_ supports Fisher House (www.fisherhouse.org)

For a current summary of how much we've donated to these and other charities, please visit http://www.freedomtoactfilms.com or the Hometown Heroes Facebook page at <https://www.facebook.com/H2NovelCharity>
HOMETOWN HEROES

A novel by

Joe Gribble

Forward Operating Base Victory—Afghanistan

A makeshift baseball field lies in the protected, secluded outskirts of the operational military base. A pair of pickup teams, each composed of both American military and Afghan trainees, play for bragging rights. The teams are very nontraditional in their uniforms. They wear piece-parts of their military uniforms, with various jerseys and ball caps of their favorite teams added to their dress. They're pitted against each other in America's favorite pastime.

The light breeze doesn't cool in the least. It only serves to stir up the fine sand in the infield. There's no grass to slow the onslaught of the gritty wind, and the powdery sand slips into every skin crevice where it mixes with sweat to become an abrasive nuisance.

U.S. Air Force Staff Sergeant Bob Williams, early twenties, sits on the bench, watching the action out on the field. He pounds his fist into his glove, impatiently waiting for his own turn on the pitcher's mound.

Ignoring the oppressive heat, the opposing pitcher wipes his face with a uniform sleeve, rubbing the sandpapery sweat across his brow and pushing the perspiration away from his eyes. He takes his signal from the catcher and nods. Glancing down, he kicks the flattened truck tire tread that serves as the traditional "rubber" marking the pitcher's mound. He grinds his combat boot down onto the rubber and leans forward. The pitcher glances over at third base where a base runner takes a few steps toward home. The pitcher then turns his attention to home plate, staring down the batter.

The batter, an Afghan soldier, taps his bat against the metal plate that serves as home base, then glances back at his teammates. They yell support from beyond a tall chain-link fence, its top lined with barbed wire. As they shout encouragement, the Afghan batter flashes a broad grin. He takes a couple of practice swings, locks his bat over his left shoulder, then faces the pitcher and waits.

The pitcher smiles, then winds up and unloads. The curve ball starts outside but breaks swiftly inward toward the batter.

The batter waits until the last moment to begin his swing. He connects at a less than optimal angle with a dull thud, and the ball bounces across the barren infield toward the shortstop.

The runner on third base races for home, digging through the rock-littered sand.

The shortstop takes two quick steps forward and drops his glove to the ground. He scoops up the ball and throws hard to the catcher.

The race is close. The runner dives for the metal plate as the catcher grabs the ball and swings down. The runner slides face first into the loose sand. The catcher tags the runner as he reaches for the plate.

As the sand and dust settle, both runner and catcher look up at the umpire.

The umpire dramatically waves his fist outward, thumb extended for all to see. "He's out!"

The dejected runner slams his fist into the ground before climbing back to his feet and rambling back toward his team's bench.

The catcher pumps his fist into the air and holds three fingers up, yelling, "That's three." He waves for his team to come in and trots toward his own team's bench. The rest of the team runs in, wiping away sweat and congratulating each other for an inning well played.

The umpire uses a small brush to wipe the dirt off of home plate. He straightens back up, pushing his dangling rifle back over his shoulder.

Bob comes off the bench and heads for the field, grabbing a baseball off the ground. He wears a Cincinnati Reds baseball cap with his combat uniform.

Staff Sergeant Johnny Gamble follows Bob out. He also wears a Reds cap, and a full set of catcher's equipment covers his uniform. Johnny slaps Bob on the back. "Three up, three down, brother—let's do this!"

"No sweat," Bob replies.

They split up, Johnny heading for home plate and Bob for the pitcher's mound.

Johnny squats behind the plate and waves at Bob as the rest of the team heads for the field.

At the mound, Bob steps on the flattened tire tread. He digs his combat boot into the rubber and throws a couple of easy, warm-up pitches to Johnny. He finally goes into a full-blown windup and throws the gas.

A blazing fast fireball screams toward Johnny's glove.

Johnny doesn't have to move his glove as the baseball slams home with a loud smack. Johnny stands and throws the ball back to Bob.

Bob nods.

Johnny twists to glance over at the umpire. "We're ready."

The ump pulls his facemask down and hollers at the opposing bench, "Let's play ball!"

Airman Parker, tall and lanky, steps forward wearing his combat helmet. He swings his bat confidently. After a couple of practice swings, he steps into the batter's box. He kicks a small rock out from under his foot, then puts the bat up onto his shoulder.

Johnny points two fingers down behind his glove.

On the mound, Bob nods, then stands upright, twists to the side, and pulls his glove and the ball up to his chest. He nods again.

At home plate, Johnny twists down into his stance, centers his glove, and looks up at the batter. "Fast ball, Airman."

The batter digs his feed into the sand. "Yeah, right."

Bob winds up and fires the ball toward the plate.

The batter swings at air as the ball smokes by him unscathed.

The umpire juts his hand out to the right and straightens up. "Strike one!"

Johnny stands to throw the ball back to Bob. He glances up at the airman as he squats back into position. "Told ya."

The airman steps out of the box, swings the bat once, then steps back into position. He keeps a wary eye on Bob, but talks to Johnny. "I got him dialed in now."

Johnny grins behind his face mask, and signals for the fastball again.

Once again, out on the mound, Bob nods and gets ready.

Johnny centers his glove and glances up at the batter. "Fastball."

The batter lifts the bat slightly off his shoulder and twists his boots into the loose sand. "Bring it."

Bob winds up and fires.

Airman Parker swings at air again.

The umpire calls it as he sees it. "Strike two!"

The airman steps back out of the box again, shaking his head. "Damn, he ought to be a pro."

Johnny throws the ball back to his buddy. "Bring the cheese, brother! This kid's scared of fastballs." He squats back down into position. "Get ready, Airman."

Bob launches another fastball.

The airman swings too early, nothing but air.

The umpire goes into his theatrics once again. "You're out!"

The airman smacks his bat against home plate. He turns and heads back to his team's bench, ignoring the heckling his team lathers on him for striking out.

Two security forces airmen standing behind the backstop with a radar gun announce the latest results. "Ninety eight."

The airman pulls off his helmet and mopes toward his bench. "No friggin' wonder." He hands his bat to a young Afghan teenager heading toward the plate wearing someone else's oversize combat helmet.

The teen's bushy hair hangs loosely from beneath the helmet. He smiles at Airman Parker from ear to ear, showing his snaggle-toothed grin as he accepts the bat.

Airman Parker shakes his head. "Good luck, kid."

The teen steps up to the plate and mimics what he has seen so far. He confidently taps his bat against the plate, then props the bat up on his shoulder. He looks out at Bob from beneath the huge helmet, still smiling broadly.

Johnny gets into his squat. He signals for a fastball.

On the mound, Bob sees Johnny's signal, but shakes his head.

Johnny insists, aggressively signaling behind his mitt for a fastball.

Again, Bob shakes his head.

Johnny gets up from his crouch. "Time."

The umpire raises his hands. "Time out."

The teenage batter looks back and forth between the pitcher, the catcher, and the umpire, bewildered.

Johnny pats the teen on the shoulder as he walks past him toward the pitcher. "Hold on just a second, kid."

Johnny trots out to the mound. He takes the ball from Bob and warms it in his glove. "What the hell, Bob? You can smoke this little dude, no problem."

Bob shakes his head, pounds his fist into his glove. "I could. But I'm not."

"What, you're gonna' let him hit?" Johnny asks.

"Yep." Bob points his glove toward the young batter. "Just look at him. The kid's barely heard of baseball, but he's having fun. Right now he thinks he likes baseball, but if we let him get a hit... if he gets a hit, he'll love baseball. For the rest of his life. It'll be in his blood."

Johnny stares at his friend for a long second. "All right. Just don't let him knock it out of the park." Johnny gives the ball back to Bob and turns and heads back toward home plate. He shouts back to Bob over his shoulder. "These little guys can fool you."

Johnny waves at the cop when he gets close to the plate, signaling him to put down his radar.

The Afghan teen steps back into the batter's box.

Johnny squats down behind the plate and centers his glove. "Swing away, kid."

Bob winds up and throws a gentle, slightly curving ball that passes slowly right over the plate.

The Afghan teen swings hard, but misses cleanly.

Johnny stays in his squat and throws the ball back to the pitcher. He pounds his fist into his glove. "Just keep your eyes on the ball, kid. Don't take 'em off it."

The teen listens to Johnny's instructions and nods, but he never takes his eyes off the pitcher. His grin is gone, replaced by a fierce look of determined concentration.

Bob throws again.

The teen waits until just the right moment, never taking his eyes off the ball. He swings hard and connects with a pop.

The ball leaps into the air, flying in a low trajectory over the shortstop and hitting the sand just short of the left fielder. Top spin keeps the ball from burying itself into the loose sand; instead, it skims quickly over the top.

The left fielder runs up for an easy grounder, but the ball bounces off one of the many rocks littering the outfield, spoiling an easy catch.

The teen drops his bat, and after a brief moment of indecision, finally races toward first base. A base coach standing near first windmills his arm, shouting, "Go! Go! GO!"

The left fielder stops and turns to chase the missed ball. He almost overruns the ball as it abruptly buries into the soft sand.

The teen rounds first and hauls for second, puffs of sand flying each time his sandals strike the ground. He makes it to second standing up, well before the ball finally gets there. Safe for a double.

Everyone on the teen's bench is on their feet, roaring their approval. The toothy grin reappears on the kid's face as he waves at his father near the bench.

The second baseman pats the kid on the back, and then tosses the ball to Bob.

A big, burly master sergeant wearing full body armor steps up to the plate and taps it with his bat. He looks at Bob.

Bob stares at his new foe.

The master sergeant takes a practice swing, then glances down at Johnny. "You gonna let me have one of them softies?"

Johnny laughs. He glances over at the security forces airman and waves for him to bring up the speed gun. He squats down into position. "Not a chance, Sergeant Invincible."

\---

FOB Victory – Bob and Johnny's Quarters

Bob and Johnny's "home away from home" is a converted cargo container where they sleep and keep their few personal belongings. They're already up, even though it's well before daylight. They rattle around quietly, strapping on their equipment.

"You ready?" Johnny asks. He takes a black marker and puts a big 'X' on a calendar. The calendar shows the previous month, already filled with Xs, and the current month halfway filled. The following month, also shown, has a big smiley face on the last day.

Bob grabs one of the many baseballs sitting on a rickety table near the door and shoves it into his pants pocket. He twists the door handle and steps outside into the early morning moonlight.

Johnny follows him out and they begin their pre-mission ritual. Bob checks Johnny's gear first. "Okay, turn around." He continues checking the equipment on Johnny's back. It's a routine drilled into them... almost second nature. Bob makes sure all of Johnny's weapons and supplies are accounted for, and that none are loose. "Fresh water?"

"Yeah," Johnny replies.

Bob slaps him on the back. "Okay. You're good to go."

"Your turn," Johnny says. They switch roles, Johnny checking Bob's gear. "I hate these missions." Johnny says.

"A mission's a mission," Bob replies.

"Not when it's escorting some State Department weenie out into the boonies for a photo op. Waste of time and equipment if you ask me. Turn."

Bob turns to face his friend. "Photo op? Johnny, didn't you listen during the pre-brief? This is a humanitarian mission. We're bringing food and toys to the helpless Afghans. Winning their hearts and minds."

Johnny continues checking Bob's gear. "Yeah, right. Newbie State dude just wants to see what it's like out in the desert so he can tell his boss in D.C. that he's already been out delivering goodies." Johnny finishes checking Bob's gear. "You're good."

They walk quickly to their Humvee. Bob goes around to the driver's side. Johnny stops outside the passenger door. He admires the full moon, spilling its silver light across dozens of similar cargo containers. "If there's one beautiful thing about this Godforsaken desert, it's the moon. Feels like you could almost reach up and touch it from here."

Bob doesn't usually notice such things, but he glances up at the night sky. He has to admit it's a stunning scene. "Yeah. Real pretty. Let's mount up."

"At least we have rear guard. Safest place to be," Johnny says as he pulls his M-4 off his back and pushes it into the cab of the Hummer before climbing in to ride shotgun.

"Ain't nowhere safe once we get outside the wire," Bob says. "Keep your eyes open."

\---

Military Convoy—Afghanistan

Bob maneuvers their Humvee along the pothole-infested dirt path mistakenly marked as a road on their maps. Even this close to Kabul, the country is in a shambles. Johnny keeps watch from his position riding shotgun, his eyes scanning from right to left, his M-4 at the ready.

Ahead, a small convoy of cargo trucks led by another Humvee meanders into a small village of earthen structures. It's almost like a ghost town. There are no villagers out, just a scrawny dog rummaging through piles of garbage along the road.

"I'm starting to hate rear guard," Johnny says, shifting to try and get a more comfortable position in the cramped vehicle.

Bob, spinning his baseball in his right hand while he steers with the left, slows as the truck in front of them steers around a deep hole.

"One more month. Just keep your mind on that," Bob says as he rolls the baseball over his hand and catches it again. "Home in a month gives us two months to practice, then tryouts and spring training."

"You're assuming we make the cut," Johnny says.

"We will. I haven't thrown harder in my whole life. And you're decent behind the plate," Bob says.

The tires on the truck in front of them churn out a cloud of sand. The sand whips in through Johnny's partially open window. He rolls it up and pulls the green cloth, his "move-out rag," up from around his neck to cover his mouth and nose. "Damn sand. I can't wait to get out of this horrid desert." He glances over at Bob. "What if they only take one of us?"

Bob glances over at his friend. "Not gonna happen. We've been a team since little league. That's not gonna change now."

The convoy slows even more ahead of them. Bob tosses the ball up in the air, catches it. Spins it.

"Put that damn ball down and grab your rifle," Johnny says. "No telling what kind of crap we're going to get into here."

Johnny looks over at his friend. "Unless you're planning to get out and play catch with the locals."

"Might not be a bad idea. Everybody loves baseball," Bob replies.

Johnny points at a figure standing on top of a building ahead on the right, wrapped in dark cloth, wearing a black keffiyeh (headdress) and sunglasses. "I don't think that guy wants to play baseball." Johnny grabs the radio's microphone to alert the convoy. "Heads up. I have a possible spotter on top..."

Without warning, an explosion rips into the lead truck, tossing the massive vehicle into the air like a toy. A fireball erupts, a plume of black smoke racing for the sky. The concussion reaches back and pelts their Humvee, rocking it.

"Goddamn it." Johnny drops the microphone and struggles to get his window down. He fires a burst at the spotter.

The truck in front of them starts backing up, racing at them on a collision course.

"Shit." Bob drops the baseball and hits the brakes. He reaches for the shifter, grinding the gears loudly as he forces it into reverse. "Shit!"

The concussion from the second explosion is deafening. Flames lick the inside of the Humvee through Johnny's open window. The vehicle leaps up, flipping over onto its side, then crashing down with a sickening rending of metal and flesh.

\---

Bob can't tell how long he's been semi-aware. His eyes are shut. He tries to open them, but they burn too much and he closes them again, tightly. He can't really hear anything either, except for an incessant ringing that masks any noise coming from the world around him. He struggles to move, but none of his limbs want to cooperate. He just lays there in a coma-like state. At least he can tell he's still breathing.

Then the pain hits. Unbearable pain from every inch of his being, like someone just finished beating him all over with a hammer. Bob pushes through the pain and struggles to open his eyes. They burn, and it is still dark. He blinks but can't see much of anything—a hazy black cloud shrouds the world around him. A few shapes move here and there, but nothing he could even start to recognize. After a few minutes, light starts to seep in and a blob begins to come into semi-focus. A face. Looking down at him. Wearing a helmet. American. A medic? The face's lips are moving, but all Bob can hear is the ringing.

The medic reaches down for him. The jostling sends even more pain through his damaged body. He tries to scream, to tell them to stop, but no words come out. More hands come into view, lifting him up, pulling him out of the shredded Humvee. Once outside, the recovery team puts him on a litter and carries him away.

Bob squints to open his eyes again, and sees the pulsating shadow of rotor blades cutting the air overhead. Once again, he tries to speak, but the words refuse to come.

The medics carry him to the chopper and load him aboard. Two medics jump in and help slide him across the metal decking.

The pain of sliding across the metal plates is excruciating. He shuts his eyes, forcing the pain into a corner of his mind. One of the medics works on his left arm. He feels a needle pierce a vein in his forearm. Just as the pain begins to creep back, everything goes black.

\---

Bob starts to regain his senses. He isn't sure exactly where he is, but he can tell he is no longer in the helicopter. The pain has subsided, mostly a dull ache covering the entire right side of his body. The ringing in his ears hasn't subsided, though. It is louder than before, and higher pitched. He opens his eyes and tries to look around. Things come into a very fuzzy focus. He sees an IV bag hanging high over him. He watches a battle nurse insert a syringe into the tubing.

A medic's face floats slowly over him. The medic is speaking, but his voice is tinny.

"You're going to be all right, brother," Bob hears the medic say. "We're taking you into surgery. Hang in there."

Bob senses motion, notices the lights from the ceiling passing over him. He watches as the nurse pushes the syringe plunger home. The blackness returns almost immediately.

\---

A jostling motion nudges Bob awake again. Still the ringing in his ears. Not worse, but not better. It's dark, but he can tell he is in a vehicle. Moving. He forces his eyes open again and stares up through a drug-induced fog. In the hazy overhead light he can make out a pair of medics hovering over him, monitoring his vitals. IV bags hanging from the roof feed his left arm. He tries to move, but can't. Either the drugs or the safety straps have him pinned in place. Just as well, his whole right side still throbs in pain.

The vehicle stops abruptly and Bob can tell his feet are at the rear of the vehicle. Through the ringing in his ears, he hears the friendly thumping noise of a helicopter idling outside. Through the windows in the rear doors he can see the sun peeking above the horizon. Sunrise, or sunset? He isn't sure.

The back doors of the ambulance fly open. Bright maintenance lights illuminate the helo waiting on the nearby pad. Shadows of warriors pass randomly, blocking the lights. The gurney moves as they pull him out of the ambulance. The medics accompany him, one holding the IV bags high. Wheels drop from the bottom of the gurney, and the rough ride across the helo pad begins.

The gurney stops abruptly, and a new face appears over him. It's the young Afghani Bob had pitched to the day before, and his father, an Afghan soldier. The Afghan teen is smiling, holding out Bob's baseball glove. Through the pain and the ringing in his ears, Bob can feel a smile spread across his own face. He tries to reach up to take the glove from the teenager, but that triggers an onslaught of pain.

That's when Bob notices the teen's eyes go wide and his smile fades. The boy sets the glove down on the stretcher near Bob, then quickly turns his head away. The teen's father puts an arm around his son's shoulder, then turns away as well.

\---

Landstuhl Regional Medical Center - Germany

Bob stirs. He feels like he's been out for days. His whole body is stiff as a board. At least the ringing in his ears is down to a bearable level. He blinks several times, trying to open his eyes. His vision is much better than before.

He's in a hospital room. A television plays quietly in the far left corner, up near the ceiling. An IV feeds his left arm. Beyond the IV, on a side table, he spots his ball glove and smiles through the pain. Bob twists to his left, bringing his right shoulder up. As he tries to reach for the glove, an excruciating pain races from his shoulder up his neck and into his head. He clenches his teeth to keep from screaming.

That's when he sees it. He looks down to his right side and recoils in horror. Where his right arm used to be is a short, bandaged stump.

Bob's opens his eyes wide. He tries to back away from his missing limb. He breathes fast, hyperventilating. How can his arm be gone when it hurts so much? After a few moments of panic, he slumps back onto his pillow, staring at his missing limb.

He wills himself to calm down, but his mind is racing. A tear drips from the corner of his eye as one big reality dawns on him—no more baseball. No career in the Majors. He'll never live his dreams, his passion. Never.

As his brain races out of control, he thinks about all the other things he won't be able to do: shoot a gun—there goes his life as a cop. Drive a stick? He'll have to sell his Mustang. Hell, will he even be able to dress himself without help? His life is over.

Bob glances back at the glove, then over at his missing arm. He reaches out and grabs the glove with his left hand, ripping the IV loose. He screams, throwing the glove at the TV.

A nurse rushes in, followed closely by two orderlies.

"Staff Sergeant Williams!" the nurse says.

Bob flops back into the bed, filled with despair. His IV dangles near his bleeding arm.

The nurse grabs a bandage and quickly covers his wound.

The orderlies split, one to each side of the bed, in case the patient gets violent.

But Bob isn't in the mood to fight. Nothing worth fighting for now. He lies quietly as the nurse works to reconnect his IV.

"This fluid is keeping the pain down, Sergeant," she says. "Probably not a good idea to pull it loose. It's also keeping infection at bay."

With a nod of her head, the nurse releases the orderlies. As they leave, one of them picks up the glove and puts it back on the table.

"Good to see you're finally awake," the nurse says. "You've been out of it for quite a while."

Bob tries to talk, but his throat is raw and dry. "Where?"

"Landstuhl. Germany. You came in two days ago," she says. "Slight sting," she says as she re-inserts the needle.

Bob considers what she said. He's been here for two days. No telling how long in the 'Stan before they medevac'd him out. Then a terror hits him. "Johnny?" His voice rasps.

The nurse looks up at him. "Johnny? Who's Johnny?"

"Was with me."

A frown forms on the nurse's face. She holds a cup of water to his lips. "You came in alone. I'll see what I can find out."

Bob takes a sip, has trouble swallowing.

"Don't move this arm. I'll be back in a minute."

\---

Bob had been hit with a sledgehammer, realizing he had lost the most important thing in his life—his ability to play baseball. But waiting to hear about Johnny is like waiting for a guillotine to drop. He feels terrible—embarrassed that he hasn't thought of Johnny first instead of the self-pity he felt for himself. It seems like forever while he waits for the nurse to return, but it's only about ten minutes before the door opens again.

Bob immediately recognizes the man as a soldier, having worked with the Army for so many long months, but it's the soldier's insignia that catches his eye... a cross above the Chaplain's name tape. Bob's stomach drops and his panic returns.

The Chaplain steps to Bob's bed and puts a hand on his shoulder.

Bob's panic subsides, replaced with an overwhelming sense of dread.

\---

Center for the Intrepid, Brook Army Medical Center, San Antonio Texas

Misery, pain, and despair fill the next few months. Mostly despair. The pain Bob can deal with. He shares the misery with his fellow warriors at the Center for the Intrepid in San Antonio. But the despair at having lost Johnny is almost more than he can stand.

The Chaplains continued reaching out to him during this difficult time, but Bob keeps them at arm's length. He knows their motivations are noble, that they truly want to help him, but he also knows they have no concept of just how great his loss is.

Through the first few weeks in rehab, Bob lets his misery rise to the surface. He is angry, insufferable to the caregivers trying to help him, and generally an all-around jerk. He knows it, and even though this behavior is totally unlike any he has ever known or displayed, there doesn't seem to be anything he can do about it.

Not only does he have to deal with the loss of his arm, but there are also burns on the right side of his torso. He suffers through multiple surgeries and skin grafts before that pain subsides.

But it is the physical therapy that he dreads the most. It is physically painful, and his attitude makes it all the more difficult. His self-pity makes him less than enthused about regaining strength or learning techniques that will enable him to live a somewhat normal life. He comes to dread the sessions, often begging off, claiming one ailment or another to keep from having to face his therapist and the torture machines.

It is during one of those times when he tells the therapist he has a fever. He is lying on his bed when someone taps on the door. Bob tries to ignore it, but the visitor is persistent. Finally, after about the fourth tap, Bob yells at the interruption: "What?"

The door opens and a man in a wheelchair rolls in. "Been watching you," the man says. "Thought you could use some company. I'm Sergeant Johnson."

"Don't need any company," Bob replies, never looking up.

"Then perhaps what you need is a kick in the ass," Johnson barks as he wheels himself closer to Bob's bed.

No one had talked to Bob that way, not seriously, at least not since boot camp. Bob had always been self-motivated, and the thought of someone else trying to use threats to motivate him, particularly in how the visitor framed the statement, made Bob angry. He sits up, glaring at his visitor until...

Bob's anger melts immediately. Johnson has far worse injuries than Bob's. His guest is in the wheelchair due to the loss of both his legs. He is also missing his left arm, and severe burn scars cover the right side of Johnson's face.

"Course, I don't think I could literally kick your ass." Johnson smiles. "Back in the day, maybe, but not now."

Bob isn't sure how to respond. He just stares at the other man.

Johnson waits for a few seconds. "They didn't tell me you couldn't talk."

"I can talk fine," Bob replies, anger returning. "What do you want?"

"I'm going to cut to the chase," Johnson says. "What the hell's wrong with you?"

"In case you didn't notice," Bob says, "I'm missing my arm."

"A tragedy, I'm sure," Johnson says as he wheels back over to shut the door.

When Johnson turns around again, his face has grown more stern. He rolls up close to Bob. "I mean, what the hell's wrong with YOU?" He pokes Bob in the chest with his one hand. "What's wrong in here?"

"What do you mean?" Bob asks.

"Where's your heart? Where'd your drive go?" Johnson says. "I heard you were a ballplayer."

"Pitcher," Bob says.

"Any good?" Johnson asks.

Bob turns his head away. "Yeah."

"Look at me," Johnson says.

Bob turns back to face Johnson.

"I asked if you were any good," Johnson says, continuing the interrogation.

"Yes," Bob says, his voice growing louder. "Damn good."

"Fastball?"

"Yeah," Bob says. "High nineties. Consistent."

"Curve?" Johnson's voice eases up, becomes more sympathetic.

"Yeah," Bob says. He eyes Johnson. Johnson shifts between acting like a drill instructor and acting like a friend. Bob isn't sure which he is trying to be. "Every flavor."

"That curve ball come natural?"

"Heck, no. Took years," Bob says. "No telling how many pitches..." Bob trails off, understanding what Johnson was getting to. "Took me thousands of pitches to get it down."

Johnson sits silently, knowing Bob is soaking up the lesson. He finally speaks up. "Nothin' comes easy. This ain't no different. You just gotta' put your heart into it."

Bob turns away again. "No reason...."

Johnson waits for Bob to look back at him.

Bob continues, "Got no reason to push."

Johnson stares at Bob for a long moment. His eyes grow soft. "I know. I lost a lot of good friends, too."

A tear forms at the corner of Bob's eye. "There's nothing left. Johnny wasn't just a good friend. He was a brother."

"They're all our brothers," Johnson says.

"No," Bob says. "It's not like that. Johnny was really like my brother. We grew up together in the same foster home. He's the only family I've ever had."

"That's rough," Johnson says. He waits a few moments, then he stares hard at Bob. "Was Johnny a wimp?"

"Hell, no." Bob's voice gets louder. "Hell, no, Johnny was tough as nails." Bob starts to get up, anger boiling. "He was my catcher. We were going to the Majors together."

Johnson puts his hand up. "Easy, Bob. I just wondered what Johnny would be doing if the roles were reversed. Would he be moaning all over himself, too?"

Bob eases back, sitting on his bed. He puts his head down into his hand. His body jerks as he begins to cry for the first time.

Johnson rolls closer, puts his hand on Bob's shoulder. "I didn't think so." Johnson waits patiently while Bob sobs, letting his pain flow out with the tears. When Bob finally recovers his composure, Johnson gives his orders. "Here's what I want. I want you to put your heart into your rehab. Let's do this for Johnny, in his memory... okay?"

Bob stares at the man, the stranger with the missing limbs, the burned face. Why is he doing this? Why does he care? Bob has no choice but to nod in agreement.

"Good," Johnson says, patting him on the shoulder again. He rolls back, turns toward the door. "I'll be back tomorrow to check on your progress. I think you'll be surprised at how quickly you get the hang of things." Johnson rolls out the door.

\---

The next few weeks are hard, but as each day passes, the work gets easier. Bob's attitude improves with each technique and skill he masters.

One therapy the docs suggest is darts. Throwing darts. They had a room set up with a dozen dart boards, spaced well apart. Like a shooting range. The first time Bob picks up a handful of darts, he can barely hit the wall. His left arm is so uncoordinated it is next to useless.

Eventually, and slowly, things improve. The worst things he has to deal with are the dreams. During the physical therapy, Bob can push his way through the pain and discomfort; but he has no defense against the dreams. The doctors assure him they will get better, and they prescribe pills to help him in the meantime. Bob tries the pills, but they provide little relief. They also caused his heart to race at the slightest noise, and he was constantly dizzy. When he finally gave up on the meds, the docs encouraged him to talk to one of the many pastors who move in and around the men and women doing their therapy.

Bob has never been a very religious person, and really doesn't want much to do with the pastors. They are nice enough, encouraging in their own way, but Bob doesn't feel they offer anything useful, so he does his best to avoid them.

As Bob pushes through his rehab, Johnson is true to his word. He is there almost every day, motivating Bob to do better, go faster, try harder.

Bob wonders about his new coach. Johnson doesn't talk much about himself, but Bob knows they share similar feelings, dream of the same kinds of ghosts. They both lost parts of themselves, but more importantly, they had lost friends. Close friends. Johnson is part drill instructor, part father figure. He somehow inherently knows when to be the gruff drill instructor and when to show his fatherly side.

After two months in rehab, Bob is alone in the dart room. He still has trouble hitting the board with any consistency. He launches a handful of darts, with only two of the five hitting the board. The others bury themselves in the large piece of cork that protects the wall. As he comes back from retrieving the darts for another shot at it, he spots a news magazine on a nearby table. The front of the magazine has a picture of an Afghan man, probably only about thirty, but as grizzled as a fifty year old. Bob's anger returns. He checks out the photo and the caption. The Afghan is a farmer. That doesn't matter to Bob, as his anger continues to rise. He rips the cover off the magazine and carries it to the dart board, pinning it over the board with four of his darts.

Bob grabs the darts from the adjacent board and walks back to the throwing line. He begins throwing. He is cautious at first, trying his best to pierce the picture of the Afghani. As his anger grows, so too do the force of his throws, and for some reason, his accuracy. Bob spends the next hour throwing darts at the picture until all that remains is shredded paper hanging in tatters from the four darts holding the corners.

Near the end of rehab, it's time for Bob to ship out. He gets his orders to go back to his unit at Wright Patterson Air Force Base in Ohio. His arm is still too injured for him to be fitted for a prosthesis. That would come in time, they assured him, and would make life easier, more normal.

Departure is bittersweet. It will be good to get back to normal, whatever that is, but Bob knows, deep down, nothing will ever be normal again.

The night before he is to leave, while Bob packs his gear for the trip, he hears the familiar tapping on the door.

Johnson rolls in without being invited. He nods at Bob, then sits silently while Bob finishes stowing his uniform into his duffel bag.

Packed, Bob zips the duffel shut. He sits down on the bed. "You know I owe you."

Johnson holds up his arm. "Enough said already. I only showed you what you would have figured out eventually."

"I suppose," Bob says. "No telling how long it would have taken, though."

"Some figure it out real quick. Most take quite a while. Only a few never get it. I knew you weren't one of them."

"I'm guessing you got it quick?" Bob asks.

Johnson shakes his head slowly. "Actually, I was one of the ones who almost didn't figure it out. It took someone in worse shape than me to show me the way. He had to threaten to kick my ass before I finally figured it out. He was a fantastic man. A true warrior."

"Was?"

Bob sees something in Johnson he's never seen before. Johnson's eyes begin to water.

"He didn't make it," Johnson says. "We all thought he was golden, even with all his injuries. He had a few surgeries to go. During the last one there were some unexpected complications. He's sorely missed."

"Sorry to hear that," Bob says.

"Got a couple of glasses?"

Bob nods and gets a couple of plastic cups from near the sink.

Johnson pulls a half-pint bottle of Kentucky's finest from between his torso and the side of the wheelchair. "I know we ain't supposed to drink in here, but I figure it's appropriate." Johnson holds the bottle out and Bob twists the top off. Johnson pours a splash into each of the plastic cups, and caps the bottle again. Each man grabs a cup and they tap them together. "To our brothers and sisters who've gone before," Johnson says.

Bob sees Johnny in his mind, clear as day, as he pours down the whiskey.

Johnson puts the cup down and stuffs the whiskey bottle back into its hiding spot before he turns away. "You'll do fine," Johnson says as he wheels toward the door. "If you need me, just call."

And with that, he's gone. Bob feels alone again, but this time with the confidence that he can make it through. How? He isn't sure yet, but he isn't going to let Johnson down. He isn't going to let Johnny down.

\---

Wright Patterson Air Force Base—Dayton, Ohio

Bob pulls into the parking spot in his crew-cab pickup. He reaches over with his left hand and pulls the shifter into park. Then, twisting his body, he turns the engine off, pulling the keys out of the ignition.

He sits in the truck for a few seconds, contemplating what he is about to do. Finally, he exhales deeply, opens the door, and steps out. Bob grabs his unit cap and places it on his head, aligning it just so to ensure his uniform is as close to perfect as a one-armed airman can get it. His right sleeve is folded up over what's left of his arm, pinned to keep it from flopping around.

It's a crisp spring day. The kind of day he had once looked so forward to. The kind of day that used to beckon him to the baseball field. Now it's just another day. Another day of struggling to adjust to his new life.

He walks over to the sidewalk and heads toward the door, careful to stay off the "old man's" grass. A sign near the door marks his destination:

88TH AIR BASE WING

HEADQUARTERS, 88th SECURITY FORCES SQUADRON

He strides down the sidewalk, then makes a right onto the concrete pathway leading to the door. Ahead, the door opens and a lieutenant colonel steps out, heading his direction.

"Shit," Bob says under his breath.

As they approach each other, Bob smiles as broadly as he can and greets the officer just as they trained him in rehab.

"Good morning, sir!" Bob says sharply.

The colonel begins to bring his right arm up to return the expected salute, but Bob hasn't rendered one. Can't.

The colonel frowns, opens his mouth to say something, then notices Bob's injury. The colonel fumbles with his half-raised salute, finally dropping it and searching for words. "Good morning, Sergeant," is all he can come up with.

"Great way to start my first day back," Bob says under his breath as he opens the door.

Inside, Bob removes his cap and looks around. Not much different than when he left. Not nearly as many people around. Walking down the hall, he spots a couple of civilians in security guard uniforms. Rent-a-cops. They must be the work-around until the rest of the squadron gets back from the 'Stan.

Bob stops at a closed door. The sign next to it identifies the occupant:

MAJOR STAN KEPLER

DEPUTY COMMANDER

Bob runs his hand through his "high and tight" haircut, then raps on the door twice, as is customary.

"Enter," comes a voice from beyond the door.

Bob opens the door and steps inside, closing the door behind him. He turns and marches up to the desk and comes to attention.

Major Kepler, pecking away at a keyboard, glances over.

"Staff Sergeant Williams reporting, sir." Bob stares straight ahead as courtesy dictates. He moves the stub of his right arm slightly. Grimaces. "Sorry for not saluting, sir."

Kepler turns away from his keyboard and stands. He extends his own left hand. "No need to apologize, Sergeant. Old habits die hard."

Bob reaches out with his left hand and shakes. "Feels weird, sir."

Kepler drops back down in his chair and points at the guest chair. "Welcome home, Bob. Take a load off." Kepler pauses briefly, thinking. "I'm sure a lot of things feel weird now."

Bob takes the chair across from Kepler's desk.

"I'm sorry about your injury," Kepler says. "That's got to be tough."

"Thanks, sir," Bob says. "It's healing pretty well. Just gonna take some getting used to."

"Too bad about Johnny, too. He was a good man. A good cop."

Bob stares at the floor. "Yes, sir. A good friend." Bob looks back up. "Sir, I'm not sure how much of a cop I can be with just one arm."

Kepler grins. "I don't want you worrying about that right now. We're sure as hell not going to throw you over the wall."

"I appreciate that, sir," Bob replies.

Kepler points at Bob's missing arm. "You've sacrificed. More than most of us. We won't forget that. I won't forget that. What's scheduled, medical-wise?"

"Occupational therapy. Three mornings a week for now. Five when I'm ready for the prosthesis," Bob says.

"Good. That's your priority. We'll worry about your career later," Kepler says.

"That leaves me a lot of time. What can I do around here?" Bob asks.

"We've got some Airmen right out of tech school, backups for our deployed team. I could use someone to keep an eye on them. The scheduler could use some help, too." Kepler glances at his watch, then stands up.

Bob senses the meeting is over. He stands as well.

"Check with the First Sergeant. But job number one is to focus on your rehab. Clear?" Kepler means this as a statement, not as a question.

"Yes, Sir," Bob replies.

Kepler steps toward the door. He has a second thought and stops, turns back toward Bob. "What about baseball?"

Bob nods toward his missing arm. "I left my pitching arm in Afghanistan, doubt I'll be playing any ball."

"The hell you say," Kepler says. "There's always time for baseball." Kepler rubs his chin, thinking. "You can coach."

"How can I coach with just one arm?" he asks.

"Just like you're going to do everything else in your life with just one arm—the best way you can. It'll be good for you. In fact, I have just the team." Kepler opens the door and steps out.

Bob follows. "Sir, I don't think..."

"Meet me out front after work. Eighteen-hundred hours. I'll take you to meet them," Kepler says.

Bob can tell this isn't merely a suggestion. "I don't know, sir, that's...."

"I have to get to an appointment. Just come check them out. These kids could use some help," Kepler says over his shoulder as he walks swiftly away.

"Kids?" Bob asks.

Kepler is already halfway down the hall. He turns and hollers back at Bob. "Eighteen hundred."

\---

Baseball Field, Wright Patterson Air Force Base

During his lunch break, Bob takes a short drive to one of his favorite places on base. Stopping his truck in the empty parking lot, he sits inside, finishing a slice of pizza and studying the empty baseball field in front of him.

Bob finally reaches over, opens the glove box, and eyes a dirty, banged up baseball left there from before his deployment. He takes it out and climbs out of the pickup. He slowly walks through the gate near the bench and out onto the field, lightly tossing the ball in the air with his clumsy left hand. Bob hesitates at the first base line. An involuntary sigh escapes his lips. "What the hell," he says, then crosses into the infield and heads to the pitcher's mound.

When he gets to the mound, he hesitates once again. Standing in the grass at the edge of the mound. He slowly turns all the way around, taking it all in. First base, right field, second. He continues his slow turn, finally stopping when he's facing the mound again. He gingerly steps into the dirt and up to the rubber.

Bob stands for a moment, relishing the feeling. He eyes home plate and starts into a slow windup, re-living the feeling he used to get when he fired his fastball over the plate. He grimaces when he accidentally moves what's left of his right arm too far.

He stops and steps off the rubber. He glances around to make sure no one is watching, then looks back toward home. He steps up to the rubber again, but this time with his right foot. He turns to the left, bringing the ball up to his chest. He winds up, awkwardly, and throws hard with his left hand. The ball goes far wide, rattling off the backstop and bouncing back into infield. Bob shakes his head and walks over to pick up the ball.

Bob turns back toward the mound but stops two-thirds of the way to the rubber. He turns back toward the plate, exhales slowly, and goes into his windup again.

This time he throws much more gently, hoping for a bit of accuracy. The ball arcs slowly, but still well outside the strike zone... by a dozen feet.

Bob holds his left hand out and stares at it. His shoulders slump and he heads back to his truck, leaving the ball behind.

\---

Bandits Baseball Field

Bob follows Major Kepler's Volvo into the empty gravel parking lot. He parks next to the shoddy baseball field.

A rag-tag baseball team, in their late teens, plays on an equally unkempt field. The waist-high chain link fence surrounding the field is mostly rust, falling down in more than one place, and has completely collapsed in left center field. Overgrown weeds litter the outfield, and the "infield grass" isn't grass at all—just dirt.

"Just like back in the 'Stan," Bob says to himself as he gets out of his truck. As he walks toward where Major Kepler is waiting, Bob watches the pitcher, a lanky black kid, try to throw a fastball to the batter.

The batter, a white kid with long, jet-black hair, has to dive for the dirt to keep from getting beaned.

"Damn it, JJ," the batter screams as he picks himself up off the ground. "Don't kill me with that thing, just put it over the plate."

"Sorry, bro," the pitcher replies.

Bob meets up with Major Kepler at the fence near first base. He checks out a stocky white kid sitting on the bench, punching his glove with his fist.

The kid on the bench lifts his head in greeting. "S'up?"

Bob nods back, then turns to watch the practice with Kepler.

Kepler points at the team on the field. "A fine looking crew," he says.

Bob looks at Kepler, out at the team, then back at Kepler. "Them?"

Kepler smiles. "You probably know I'm a reservist. When I'm not on reserve duty, my regular job keeps me downtown. I've been watching these guys."

"Watching them try to play baseball?" Bob asks.

Kepler waves his hand out at the team. "Watching them reach for their dreams. They've all got tough lives outside of this game."

Kepler turns to the guy on the bench. "Rollie, right?"

The kid on the bench sneers back at them. "It's Pauli, Chief."

Kepler nods. "Pauli Banes, right. This is Bob Williams. Your new coach."

Bob shakes his head. "Maybe."

Pauli points at Bob. "Coach? How he gonna' coach? He only got one arm."

Kepler slaps Bob on the back and pushes him toward the bench. "Pauli, why don't you introduce Bob around while I'm gone?"

Bob gives Kepler a questioning look.

"I have to run down to St. Vincent's homeless shelter. Be back in an hour or so." Kepler walks away.

Bob steps toward Pauli, still sitting on the bench.

Pauli watches him warily, then speaks. "If you okay with the major, you okay with me. But I don't know how you gonna coach with just one arm."

"I don't know, either," Bob replies, then plops down on the bench beside Pauli. "Is this all the team?"

Pauli stares at him with disdain. "We got nine. All you need is nine. Ain't you never played baseball?"

Bob smiles. "Once or twice. I only see eight."

"That's cause I'm nine." Pauli shakes his head. He points out at the field. "Okay, so that's JJ pitching. Only he ain't no pitcher. He's first base. But we ain't got no pitcher, so he's the pitcher."

Bob says, "No pitcher. Got it."

"Josh Santini is battin'. He's third base. Ramiro Sanchez is catcher. He's been coaching us. He might be illegal, I ain't sure. But he can hit anything."

"Is he gonna' have a problem with me if I decide to coach?" Bob says.

"Nah. He'll be cool," Pauli says.

JJ finally gets one over the plate and Josh swings for the fence.

He connects with a pop.

The ball heads for the shortstop.

Pauli jumps to his feet. "You the man, Josh!"

The ball makes an erratic jump, almost getting past the short black kid playing shortstop. He bobbles it, finally gets a handle on it, and throws it to first. Hard. And a little wide. The first baseman, a very thin Asian kid, shies away from the speeding projectile, missing it. The ball rattles into the rusty fence.

Pauli sits back down. "That's Q at shortstop. He usually don't mess up like that. Shinji's on first, but he's really our right fielder."

Bob shakes his head. "Shinji should've had that."

"He's pretty good at fly balls and grounders," Pauli says. "I think the fast ones scare him a little."

Ramiro, the stocky catcher, picks up a bat while Josh trots over to the empty third base.

Pauli continues the introductions. "Roger is left field. He's really fast. We call him the rocket. That's Saunders at center, and Mayday at left. Mayday's our bat boy. He don't really got it all together, but he means good."

JJ fires a fastball that's just outside of the plate. Ramiro swings anyway and connects, sending the ball well over the head of the right fielder.

Pauli points at the field. "Told you. He can hit anything."

"What about second base?" Bob asks.

"I'm second," Pauli says.

"Then why aren't you out there?"

Pauli smiles. "I'm in time out."

"Time out?" Bob asks. "There's no time out in practice."

Pauli smacks his fist into his glove again. "Anger management. My parole officer taught me. JJ almost hit me when I was batting. It was either kick his ass or take a few minutes. I'm good now."

Pauli jumps up and jogs toward the broken gate in the fence.

Bob calls after him. "I'm glad you decided to take a few."

The rest of the team shouts support as Pauli takes his place at second.

Bob stands and follows Pauli onto the field.

Pauli hollers to the team. "Hey! We got a new coach!"

The team whoops and hollers as one. They all head for the pitching mound, gathering around Bob. They stare at Bob's missing arm.

JJ starts to reach out to shake, nervously pulls his hand back and looks away. "Hey, Coach."

Q follows. "S'up, Coach?"

Josh then points out the obvious to the team. "He's only got one arm." He turns back to Bob. "How you gonna coach with just one arm, Coach?"

Bob tells them the truth. "You know, I'm not sure. We'll have to see how it goes."

JJ asks what they're all wondering. "So how'd you lose your arm, Coach?"

"Afghanistan. Took an IED hit."

Ramiro shrugs his bulky shoulders. "What's an IED, Coach?"

"Roadside bomb. Weapon of choice for the Taliban," Bob answers.

"Man. That sucks," JJ says. The team mumbles in agreement.

"So how come you wanna be our coach?" JJ asks.

Bob shrugs. "Major Kepler told me you guys could use some help. From what I've seen, he's right. When's your first game?"

"Two weeks," Pauli says.

"That's not much time," Bob says. "You guys need to brush up on some basics. Fielding practice."

Bob points at Q. "You almost missed that grounder."

Q throws his hands up. "It took a bad bounce, Coach."

"If you knew the basics, you wouldn't have bobbled it. Might have had a cleaner throw to second," Bob says. "Everyone line up along the baseline."

The whole team grumbles, but they slowly move to the baseline between second and third.

JJ speaks for them. "But we want to practice batting, Coach."

"If you don't know the basics, you can't play with the big boys," Bob says. He steps in front of Q. "This is how you field a grounder."

Bob twists his feet sideways, still facing forward. He bends his knees so his legs form a barrier. His left hand goes down into the gap between his left knee and his right foot. "Glove down in the gap. Your right hand..." Bob glances at his missing arm again. "Well, if I had one I'd show you, but it's ready to cover the ball."

JJ snickers. "Ain't never seen no major league players do that on TV."

"When you're good enough to play in the majors, you can do it however you want. For this team...." Bob pauses, glancing at each of the players. "What are you called, anyway?"

"We're the frickin' Bandits," Shinji says.

"Banditos." Ramiro high-fives Shinji.

Bob shakes his head, unable to avoid a grin. "Okay. The Bandits field grounders old school. You do it right and you block out a large area. That way grounders can't get by. Got it?"

The team grumbles their agreement.

"Good," Bob says. "Grab some balls and pair off, about thirty feet apart, and practice fielding."

"We only got the one ball, Coach," Josh says.

"One ball?" Bob shakes his head. "Okay. Pair off. Ladder down."

"Whassat mean?" JJ asks.

"Toss me the ball," Bob tells Josh.

Josh starts to throw the ball to Bob, but hesitates. Finally, he walks over and hands it to their new coach. He walks back to the baseline and the players pair off, straddling the baseline about fifteen feet apart.

"Get ready, Q," Bob says.

Bob throws a grounder to Q. His left hand doesn't cooperate and the ball goes wide. Q moves over and fields it quickly, just like Bob showed him.

"Good," Bob says. "Now Q throws it to the next guy ... what's your name, again?"

"Shinji."

Q tosses an easy grounder to Shinji. Shinji fields it easily.

"No, no, no," Bob says. "Don't just toss it. Throw it!"

Shinji fires a grounder to Ramiro. Ramiro tries to scoop it up one-handed, but misses.

"Old school," Bob says. "Do it like I showed you.

Bob shakes his head and walks back to the bench, yelling back over his shoulder. "Keep going down the line. When you get to the end, swap sides and keep practicing."

Saunders fields the ball and rolls it back to Josh.

Bob shouts. "Throw the ball hard! This isn't little league."

\---

An hour later, the Bandits are still practicing "old-school" fielding. Bob sits on the bench.

Major Kepler walks up. Bob sees him and stands quickly at attention. Kepler waves for him to sit back down, and then sits beside him. "I think I see improvement already."

Bob looks sideways at the major. "I don't know what these guys have been doing, but they ain't a ball team."

Kepler smiles. "Maybe they just needed a coach."

\---

Bob's Apartment

Bob opens the door to his apartment and steps inside. He flips on a light in the dark, sparse apartment. He tosses his keys onto a side table and sits down in the one chair in the living area. He unzips his boots, kicks them off.

Bob stands and grabs the remote, clicking on the TV as he walks to the kitchen. He returns with a can of beer, peels the top, and flops back down into the chair, feet up on the small coffee table.

The news comes on, showing a clip of yet another attack in Afghanistan. Vivid images of an explosion ripping away the side of a building, panicked Afghanis running for their lives. Bob averts his eyes quickly. He grabs the remote with a trembling hand and clicks over to a sports channel.

A baseball game is in full swing, Reds over the Padres, two to zip. The pitcher winds up, fires the ball at the plate. Bob can't concentrate on the game. Images of the explosion he just saw keep looping over and over in his head. People running away, wounded and bleeding.

Bob takes a long drink of his beer. He gets up, goes over to the TV stand, and rummages through a stack of DVDs in the bottom compartment. He selects one with a white label that says "Pony League." He slips it into the DVD player, grabs a whiskey bottle off of a table next to the TV, and returns to his chair. He holds the bottle between his legs and spins off the top, then takes a swig.

He hits the remote, starting the DVD.

A younger Bob in a baseball uniform comes into view on the pitcher's mound at a well-attended game. Young Bob winds up and fires a fastball. He smokes it past the motionless batter.

A young Johnny catches the fastball as the umpire calls the strike.

Bob looks down at his missing arm, then takes another swig from the bottle.

\---

Security Forces Headquarters, Wright Patterson Air Force Base

Back at work, Bob sits at a computer. He hits a key, then reaches across the keyboard and struggles with the mouse.

He goes back to the keyboard, finger hovering as he searches.

Major Kepler walks by the door. He sees Bob inside and steps in. "How's it going?"

Bob starts to stand.

Kepler holds his hand out. "Easy, Bob. As you were."

"I used to type pretty fast," Bob says. He reaches across for the mouse again.

Kepler sits down in the chair next to Bob. "This mouse will work left handed," Kepler says. "I think all you have to do is change the configuration."

"That would help a lot," Bob says.

"Get the IT folks to look at it," Kepler says.

Bob continues to peck away with one finger. "Do they make a left-handed keyboard?"

"Not very good with your left hand?" Kepler asks.

"Never was," Bob replies.

"That might be a problem," Kepler says. "You're up for re-qual on the nine mil."

Bob stops in mid-type, finger pausing over the keyboard. "Already?"

"Yeah," Kepler says. "The system flagged you when you got wounded. I can waive a lot of things, but a cop has to be able to shoot."

Bob drops his hand onto the table, looks at it. "If I can't qual, guess I'm out?"

"See Airman White at the range," Kepler says. "Use all the ammo you need. Practice till it hurts."

"I'll get right on that, sir," Bob says.

As Kepler stands to leave, he pats Bob on the shoulder. "You'll do fine. " He steps to the door, pauses, and turns. "How're the Bandits doing?"

Bob turns in his chair and faces the Major. "They're a little thin on the fundamentals. I'm not sure I can help them."

Kepler grins. "Well, you can't hurt. Keeps you close to the game. That's a good thing. You been back out there?"

"We've got practice tomorrow. Maybe I'll decide then. I don't want to lead them on."

\---

Bandits Baseball Field

It's an overcast, hazy day at the Bandits' ramshackle baseball field. Bob sits on the bench, waiting, watching the three players already on the field.

Ramiro shows up. He sits down on the bench to put on his catcher's gear. "Que paso, Coach?"

"English," Bob says. "You're an American."

"Almost, Coach," Ramiro says. "Almost. The paperwork's being processed, least that's what they tell us."

"So you're on a green card?" Bob asks.

"I wish," Ramiro says. "It's expired. My whole family is waiting. They told us to stay, keep a low profile. I'm not supposed to talk about it." Ramiro fastens his shin guard and trots out to home plate.

JJ, the pitcher, starts warming up with Ramiro. Bob watches as they practice. JJ's first pitch goes well outside. Ramiro misses it, and it crashes into the backstop. He trots over to get it, throws it back to JJ.

JJ winds up and throws again. The ball goes inside this time. Ramiro dives to get it. He stands and throws it back to JJ, dusting off his shirt.

JJ pitches again. This time Ramiro has to leap high into the air to snag it.

Bob shakes his head. He stands and walks toward the pitcher's mound. He looks at the catcher and holds his hand up. Bob steps up to the mound. "Settle down, JJ. Get 'em over the plate. Don't worry about speed yet."

"But if I throw slow over the plate, everybody's going to hit them," JJ says.

"That's what batters do," Bob says. "Just get the ball over the plate, then we'll work on speed."

Bob waves to Shinji at first. "Shinji, go in and hit. Maybe JJ just needs a target."

Shinji shakes his head as he trots to the plate. "I don't want to be a frickin' target, Coach." He grabs a bat and steps into the box.

JJ fires a speedball.

Shinji jumps back out of the way to keep from getting hit. "He's trying to frickin' kill me!"

"Sorry, Shinji!" JJ says.

"Slow it down a little more, JJ," Bob says. "Just get it over the plate."

JJ throws one slow, a duck right over the plate.

Shinji swings hard and connects, a high foul out past the third base line, almost into the street.

The ball stops near a young man walking away from them along the sidewalk.

Josh, at third, hollers to him, "Hey, bro! How about a little help?"

The man turns. A teenager, tall and lanky, wearing Afghan-style clothing: flowing shirt, salwar pants, and sandals. He picks up the ball.

Josh waves at him from third base.

The Afghan teen's arm moves in a blur.

Josh watches the ball fly over his head.

Ramiro, at home plate, doesn't move. He raises his glove to his chest and the ball hits it dead center.

"Holy shit," Josh says.

JJ turns to Bob. "You see that, Coach? That guy's got an arm."

JJ turns and shouts to the kid, already walking away. "Hey, bro! Bro! You wanna play ball?"

Bob watches the kid walk away. "Shut up, JJ. We don't need him."

"But Coach," JJ says, "you saw him throw."

Bob swivels around to face home plate, turning his back on the Afghani kid. "Just pitch the ball, JJ."

JJ watches as the Afghan kid continues to walk away. He shakes his head and turns back to face Ramiro.

Ramiro throws the ball back to JJ.

JJ catches it. "You gotta' admit, Coach, that kid can throw."

Bob ignores him. "Just pitch the ball over the plate."

\---

They practice until almost sunset, when Bob finally turns them loose.

Ramiro sits on the bench, pulling off his shin guards while the rest of the team walks away.

Bob sits down next to him. "How's it going, Ramiro?"

"Honestly?" Ramiro asks.

"Sure," Bob says.

"You got a cred problem."

"How's that?"

"The way you throw. Like a girl or somethin'," Ramiro says.

Bob looks down at his missing right arm, then raises his left. "I'm not much good with my left."

"We gotta' work on that so these guys will take you serious," Ramiro says. "Grab the ball."

Ramiro grabs his face mask and heads for home plate, without his other protective gear. "Throw me a few."

Bob walks to the pitcher's mound, tossing the ball lightly in the air and catching it with his left hand. He toes the rubber.

Ramiro squats behind the plate.

Bob stares at the catcher, still tossing the ball in the air.

Ramiro punches his glove. "Any time, Coach."

Bob tries to go into a windup. Awkward. He throws, but his pitch flies well to Ramiro's left.

Ramiro doesn't even try to get it. He stands and puts his hands on his hips. "I think you're worse than JJ. We got a lot of work to do."

Ramiro walks over to retrieve the ball and tosses it back to Bob. Without a glove, Bob tries a bare-handed catch and bobbles the ball. He steps onto the rubber and throws again, far inside, but at least Ramiro is able to snag it.

Bob throws again, this time forcing Ramiro to leap into the air to try and catch the ball, but he misses it just the same. He shakes his head as he trots back to get the ball and tosses it to Bob.

Bob winds up, but loses his balance and almost falls over.

Ramiro can't help but laugh.

Bob frowns. Tries again. This time his throw bounces short of the plate and flies to Ramiro's right, well out of reach.

Ramiro stands up and pulls off his face mask, studying his coach before committing. "Why don't you move in a little closer to the plate, Coach?"

Bob glances around to make sure no one is watching. He steps a few paces forward and tries again, but his throw still goes wide. Bob shakes his head as Ramiro throws the ball back to him. "You sure you want to do this?"

Ramiro squats back down behind the plate. "We got at least another hour before it gets dark, Coach. I'm here as long as you want."

\---

An hour later, the sun is almost down and Bob has thrown at least a couple hundred pitches. His accuracy has gotten better, and he's back up on the mound, throwing from the regulation distance. It's getting harder to see the plate in the fading sunlight, so Bob calls it a night. "That's enough for today, Ramiro," Bob says.

He follows Ramiro back over to the bench. Ramiro grabs his gear and puts it under his arm.

"Thanks for helping," Bob says.

"No problem, Coach. You're getting a lot better already. We can practice whenever you want."

"I appreciate it," Bob says. "I'd just as soon the other Bandits don't know, though. At least not until I'm a lot better."

"I ain't gonna' say nothin', Coach. You have my word. See you tomorrow." Ramiro starts to walk away.

"One thing," Bob says.

Ramiro turns.

"Your immigration problem. I know you said you weren't supposed to talk about it, but is there anything I can do?"

Ramiro looks around, then walks back to Bob and begins talking in a low voice. "I wish you could, Coach. I'm not sure. See, the ATF brought us here for our safety. My dad don't talk about it, but he did something for them back when we were still in Mexico. Something to do with guns, probably, just from things I've overheard him tell my mom. I don't know. We been here three years already. We were supposed to have our permanent papers by now, but we're still waiting. Dad says we can't go back. No matter what."

Bob takes it all in. Not the first time the U.S. government promised something, then didn't follow through. "I understand, Ramiro. Let me ask around."

"You can't tell no one, Coach," Ramiro says.

"Don't worry. I'll be discreet." Bob pats Ramiro on the shoulder as the young man smiles, then walks away. "See you tomorrow," Bob shouts after him.

\---

Downtown Dayton

The downpour resolves into a light drizzle. Bob has to keep switching on his wipers as he drives downtown. Even at the slowest setting the wipers come on too often, so he switches them on and off manually, steering with his knees each time he has to use his hand to adjust the wipers. Just one more reminder of what they had taken from him. He pulls to the curb when he spots what he is searching for. Only a hundred feet away, it wasn't much more than an old house. A pair of silver-domed parapets in the rear mark it for what it really is. A mosque. Bob saw plenty of them in Afghanistan. More than enough. He watches the building for fifteen minutes, just staring at it. He isn't sure why he came, why he should even care. Maybe just to see what they looked like. Were they foreigners who brought their religion to the shores of America, relying on Americans' indifference, taking advantage of our hard-won freedoms? Or were they Americans, coerced or lured into the promises of a so-called peaceful religion? All Bob would need to do is confront them, show them his injuries, but he doubted that would sway any of them... He had experienced their animosity toward "infidels" plenty of times in the past.

Bob watches with interest as a small group of men emerge from the side door. Several wear traditional Arab dress, and the others wear American-style clothing. They say their farewells, and split up when they reach the sidewalk. The men in the American clothing walk toward him. The others walk away. Bob fires up his truck and drops it into gear. He eases away from the curb, around a car parked in front of him and drives slowly down the street toward the mosque.

As he passes the men in American clothes, he stares at them. They stare back, keeping their eyes locked on him until he passes by. He picks up his speed as he approaches the others, the men in Arab clothing. Timing is everything. He pushes the accelerator down hard and swerves toward the sidewalk.

His right front tire smashes into the large puddle at just the right instant, dousing the pedestrians with the filthy street water. Bob accelerates away, oblivious to the angry curses coming from the drenched men.

Bob turns the corner and heads back to the base, a smile across his face.

\---

Security Forces Headquarters

Another day on the job reminds Bob that there's more to life than baseball, at least for someone who doesn't play ball for a living. As he walks down the hall toward Major Kepler's office, he hears voices coming from the break room. He stops in the hall when he hears his name.

Inside the break room, two civilian contract guards—rent-a-cops—and a young airman drink coffee.

"Williams just hasn't figured it out yet," the first rent-a-cop, Paul, says. He takes a swig of his coffee and feeds his overweight frame with a bite from a Danish.

Bob waits outside and listens.

In the break room, the second rent-a-cop, George, a thin man with cigarette-stained teeth, agrees. "You can't be a cop with just one arm."

"I heard he's even trying to coach a baseball team," Paul says. "Unbelievable."

"Just how the hell does that work?" George asks. "He can't even throw the ball, much less swing a bat."

Airman Jones twists in his seat. "I heard he was a good cop. And a hell of a pitcher."

"Was," Paul says. "Maybe before he lost his arm."

"He might be able to pull it off," Airman Jones says.

"Not a chance," George replies. "You want to go out on a call with him? Think a one-armed cop can have your back?"

"Back when I was in uniform, they wouldn't even think about letting a one-armed guy be a cop," Paul says. "He'd be out on the street in a heartbeat."

"I don't know what the Air Force is coming to," George says.

Out in the hallway, Major Kepler steps out of his office, right across from the break room. Kepler's normally calm face is flaming red. Kepler sees Bob in the hallway, staring at the break room door, his jaw clenched. Bob steps toward the break room door, and Kepler tries to stop him. "Bob, don't pay any attention to..."

Bob ignores the major and walks into the break room, his hand closed tightly in a fist.

Paul has his back to the door, but George and the Airman both see Bob storm in.

Bob kicks a plastic chair, hard, and it slams against the wall.

Paul jumps halfway out of his seat, knocking what's left of his Danish onto the floor.

Bob puts his hand on Paul's shoulder and pushes him back down into his chair, then towers over the table and his detractors.

Both rent-a-cops shrink away from him, expecting the worst.

"You don't think I can be a cop?" Bob asks. "I'll take either one of you on. Anytime."

The rent-a-cops say nothing, just continue to stare at their coffee.

Bob glares at them briefly, then turns and leaves. Walking into the hallway, Bob almost runs into Major Kepler. He stops.

Kepler is smiling. "You handled that well."

Bob pumps out his chest. "Major, I'm going to be the best cop you ever had. And I'm going to teach those boys how to play baseball!"

Bob walks back past the break room door, glaring at the men inside.

The men inside see Bob walk past. They squirm in their chairs, staring down at their coffee.

Major Kepler stomps into the room and stands with his fists clenched on his hips, leaning forward, towering over the men.

The Airman jumps to attention, the two rent-a-cops cower.

Kepler stares at each of them in turn. "Do you gentlemen understand the concept of additional duty?"

\---

Bob's Apartment

Bob carries a box into his apartment, then into the empty spare bedroom. He pulls a dartboard out of the box and hangs it on a nail he had previously hammered into the wall. He puts a picture of an Afghan warrior over the board with pushpins. Smiling, he steps back to the other side of the room and begins launching darts at the photo.

Many of the darts miss the board completely, piercing the wall. Bob doesn't care, as he continues to attack the Afghan. After an hour, the picture is shredded. Bob takes another picture from a folder filled with similar photos. Another Afghan. He pins the photo over the dartboard and resumes his attacks. He continues for several hours, destroying almost a dozen photos.

\---

Bandits Baseball Field

Another typical, overcast day at the Bandits' baseball field. The team is practicing. JJ is at bat.

Bob walks up to the fence, wearing a full baseball uniform, right sleeve pinned to his shirt. The only thing that isn't regulation is his zip-up combat boots. He carries a heavy bag over his shoulder.

Shinji spots Bob first, and shouts at the rest of the team. "Hey, don't Coach look the part?"

Bob steps through the broken gate in the fence and waves the team in.

The Bandits trot toward first base and gather around Bob.

"All right," Bob says. "We've got a lot of work to do before our first game."

"That mean you're going to be our coach? "Ramiro asks. "For real?"

"Yeah," Bob says. "We're going to pull this team together. It's not going to be easy. You're all going to have to work hard."

"We will, Coach," JJ says for the team.

The rest of the team mumbles agreement.

Bob eyes them harshly. "Don't tell me you're going to work hard, then wimp out on me."

"We'll work hard, Coach" Pauli says. "Promise."

Bob scans the players. "Just so you understand, when I say 'hard,' I mean really hard. Hard like you've never worked before."

"Yeah, sure, Coach," Josh says. "No problem."

"We're going to start with a lot of drills," Bob says. "I want everyone out here every day, for the next three days."

"We'll be here, Coach," Saunders says.

"All right," Bob says. "Let's get started. Line up for fielding practice, just like we did before."

The team lines up. They start throwing their single baseball across the lines, then fielding it and throwing it back.

Bob picks up the duffel bag he brought and dumps it. Bats, balls, gloves, and helmets fall on the ground. He picks up a ball and tosses it clumsily to JJ, standing at the end of the line.

JJ catches it and just stands there, not knowing what to do.

"Go," Bob says. "Keep it going."

JJ throws a grounder to Pauli.

Pauli fields it and throws it to Josh standing next to JJ.

Bob keeps tossing balls to JJ, who throws grounders to Pauli. Balls are flying back and forth as the players continually work the exercise.

Then they start screwing up. First Pauli misses a grounder and has to chase it down. Josh throws the ball back to Shinji, but he was supposed to throw it to Saunders, and Shinji misses it.

They all start laughing.

Bob isn't laughing. "Next one to screw up does a lap. All the way around the outfield."

"No way, Coach," Rocket says. Not paying attention, a grounder scoots past him.

"Take a lap, Rocket," Bob says.

"Awwww, man," Rocket says as he turns and starts to trot toward first base.

"And no lollygagging," Bob shouts. "I want you to run. Go!"

Rocket grins. He tags first, then heads for right field, running hard.

The other players laugh.

"JJ, step into Rocket's place," Bob says. "Keep it going."

\---

An hour later Bob is still running the team through basic baseball exercises.

The Bandits are lined up, side by side, at first base, clothes covered with dirt.

Bob stands near second base. He digs a line in the dirt with his shoe, scraping a 20-foot-long scar in the dirt. He checks his team, standing near first waiting for his signal. "Go!" Bob shouts.

The team races toward second base, Rocket leading the pack. They all slide into the line, feet first. Dust and dirt fill the air.

They slowly stand, brushing the dirt off their clothes.

"All right," Bob says. "Third."

The team lines up, ready to go again.

"Go!"

They sprint for third. Slide in again.

"Going home," Bob shouts, still standing near second.

They line up again.

"Go!"

Off they go. Rocket still flies, but the rest of the Bandits are much slower this time. Several of the Bandits are breathing hard.

Bob walks to home plate as the team struggles to their feet. They're filthy, scratched, bruised.

"Enough," JJ says, pleading.

"I'm done in, Coach," Josh says.

Bob smiles. "You guys did pretty well for our first real practice."

The team is sucking air, several bent over with their hands on knees, heaving for their breath.

"Tomorrow you're going to be sore, you're going to hurt. You aren't going to want to come back out here." Bob pauses, lets his words sink in. Then he closes. "If you want to play on this team, you better be here." Then he smiles, and points at first. "First base."

The Bandits stagger into a line.

"Go!"

The team heads for first. They're all dragging, but their hearts are in it. They're trying hard.

\---

Government Office Building

Bob steps out of the elevator and faces the door to the Immigration and Naturalization Office. He considers turning around, not sure whether or not this is the right move. After talking with Ramiro, though, he feels he has to do something. He checks his uniform and steps into the government office.

Bob has seen many military offices, but he hasn't ventured into many nonmilitary government buildings. While the office is much nicer than any military office he's ever seen, it still has the sterile feel of a government facility. A receptionist sits beyond a half-wall. Bob steps forward and waits in front of her for several seconds before she looks up from her computer.

"Can I help you?" she asks.

"I have an appointment with Ms. Kuznieski," Bob replies.

The receptionist points toward the plastic chairs lining the wall in the lobby. "I'll let her know you're here," she says.

Bob sits down across from an elderly, Latino gentleman. Bob grabs a magazine and settles in, knowing it could be a long wait.

Not much time passes before an attractive blonde with short hair, about Bob's age, steps out of a door near the receptionist and walks up to Bob.

"Mr. Williams?" she asks.

Bob stands.

Julie extends her hand.

"I'm Julie Kuznieski, case worker," Julie says.

Bob looks at her hand, extends his left to shake. Awkward.

Julie senses his anxiety. "I'm sorry," she says.

Bob shakes his head. "It's okay. I'm still getting used to shaking with my left."

Julie smiles. "I think you're doing very well."

Her smile is beautiful, mesmerizing. Bob stares, takes in her beauty, probably a little too long. He finally responds. "Thanks," is all he can manage to say.

"Come on back, sir," she says.

"Call me Bob, please."

Bob follows Julie through the door and past a cubicle farm to a series of offices along the wall.

Julie leads Bob into her office. She sits behind her desk and waves Bob toward a chair.

Bob sits and scans the office. A few pictures of Julie and a small girl, some framed awards, a diploma. The desk is clean, tidy. Bob is nosy; he searches for a picture of Julie with a man. He finds none.

"You said something on the phone about a friend?" Julie asks.

"Yeah." Bob fidgets a little in his chair. "I'm not sure what the procedure is. I can't give you his name. I don't want to get him in trouble. It's complicated."

"Can you tell me what the problem is, then?" she asks.

"He tells me he's had his naturalization paperwork in for over three years. He and his family. They're living on the edge now. Their green cards have expired, so I guess they're illegal."

"Probably." Julie pauses, staring at Bob. Finally she leans toward him. "Listen, I'm also the ombudsman. That means I can do some checking in confidence, without filing any legal alerts. I can check their status, but I'll need their names."

"No one'll get in trouble?"

"Absolutely not," Julie says.

"That would be great." Bob leans forward, glances around, and lowers his voice. "His name is Ramiro Sanchez."

Julie turns to her computer, types quickly. "I've got three Ramiro Sanchezes. Two at the same address."

"My friend's a Junior," Bob says.

"Okay." Julie clicks on one of the names. "Their applications are dated three years ago, just like you said. It seems they're stuck at the State Department."

"Why?" Bob asks.

Julie clicks on a link, opens up a document on the computer. "I think they meet all the requirements. Sometimes Homeland Security requires a background check. That can take a while."

"Is there any way to hurry that along?" Bob asks. "Ramiro is pretty concerned."

"I'll see what I can do." Julie turns back from the computer and smiles at him. "May I ask why you're so interested in this young man?"

Bob smiles back. "He's my catcher... and he can hit anything."

"Baseball?" Julie asks.

"Yeah, I'm coaching a team. Just started, actually. Young adults. They all seem like good kids."

"My dad used to take me to watch the Dragons," Julie says. "I loved that."

"Used to?"

"Dad's gone now. I haven't been to a baseball game in a couple of years now. It just wouldn't be the same," Julie says.

"Sorry," Bob says. "I watched the Dragons play a couple of times before I deployed. Haven't been out to their field since I got back."

"Maybe I could come watch your team play sometime. I'd like to meet Mr. Sanchez," Julie says.

Bob's heart beats quickly at the thought of being able to see this beautiful young woman in a nonbusiness setting. Then he thinks about Ramiro. "Maybe some time. I think it'd be better to keep this whole thing kind of quiet for now," Bob says.

Julie nods. "I understand. Let me dig around a little, and I'll call you when and if I find out anything."

Bob thought he sensed a bit of disappointment in Julie's voice. Or was it just wishful thinking? "Thanks. I appreciate your help." Bob stands up to leave.

Julie stands as well. This time she extends her left hand to shake.

Bob accepts it quickly.

"I'll be in touch," Julie says, smiling.

\---

Small Arms Range Complex, Wright Patterson Air Force Base

Bob pulls up to a building set back away from the rest of the Air Force Base. He steps out of his truck and heads for the door. "This used to be easy," he says to himself.

He steps inside a small room, separated from a shooting range by thick Plexiglas windows. An airman, sidearm strapped to his right thigh, sits behind a half-wall. Bob steps up to the wall and checks the Airman's nametape. White.

Airman White stands. "Can I help you, Sergeant?"

"I need to check out an M-9 and a box of ammo, Airman White," Bob says.

"Right away, Sergeant." Airman White turns to a wall of small square lockers. He pulls a large set of keys out of his pocket and inserts one into a locker. He opens the door and pulls out a pistol. He puts the pistol on the counter. He pushes a clipboard with a form already loaded, government-issue black pen dangling from a silver chain, to Bob.

"Just need you to sign for the weapon, Sergeant," White says.

Bob slowly writes his name with his left hand. "You want me to fill out the top?"

"I'll take care of it, Sergeant," White says as he takes the clipboard from Bob. Airman White takes a box of shells from a small safe and puts them on the counter next to the clips and the pistol. "You want me to load the clips?"

"No, I got it," Bob says. "I'm going to have to figure out how to do this myself."

White pulls the form off the clipboard. "You're good to go, then, Sergeant. Good luck."

Bob puts the two clips into one front pants pocket, the box of shells into the other. He grabs the pistol and heads for the door.

"Don't forget your protective gear," White says.

Bob lays the handgun on a table. He takes a pair of ear protectors and some safety glasses from a rack and puts them on, then picks up the M-9 and steps through the first door.

The first thing Bob notices when he steps through the air gap between the sets of doors is the muffled concussions from a rapid-fire pistol and the muffled _bang....bang....bang_ in his ears. A short pause and the noise briefly echoes through the range.

Bob continues through the second set of doors, past two shooters, then past several empty stalls to the other end of the range. He turns into the last stall and places his M-9 on the shelf. He rips a bull's-eye target from a pad and clips it on the motorized zip line, then hits a button on the side of the stall, and the target moves quickly away from him. He stops the target at the twenty-five-yard mark.

Next, Bob pulls the clips and ammo out of his pockets, setting them on the shelf next to the pistol. He takes the top off the ammo box and pulls out a round. He tries to insert the round into the clip one-handed. The bullet doesn't go in, and the spring in the clip ejects it, sending it flying. The round bounces off the shelf and falls to the floor.

"Damn," Bob says. He glances around to see whether anyone saw what happened. Fortunately, the only other people in the range are at the far end, busy with their own practicing. Airman White, visible through the thick bullet-proof Plexiglas, has his nose buried in some paperwork.

Bob takes the clip and box of bullets to the bench behind the stall. He sits down and puts the clip between his knees, holding it as tight as he can. Bob takes another round and, struggling, finally gets it loaded into the clip. "Okay," he mumbles.

Bob continues to fight the clips. One by one, he manages to push rounds into them, finally getting both of the clips loaded. He goes back to the range head and pushes one of the clips toward the pistol in an attempt to insert it, but the pistol slides away. He finally gets the pistol jammed against the side of the stall and rams the clip home. Beads of sweat already cover Bob's forehead.

Finally ready, Bob takes his stance. He lifts the pistol in his awkward left hand and points downrange. He fires off three rounds in slow succession: _bang...bang...bang_.

Bob lowers the pistol. The target never moved. It's clean. Not a single hit. "Damn it." He lifts the pistol again. Tries to steady his aim. Three more rounds: _bang...bang...bang_.

He checks the target again. Nothing. Bob stretches his neck and adjusts his stance. He lifts the weapon again. He takes a deep breath, exhales slowly and lines up the sights. _Bang...bang...bang_.

Nothing.

"Damn." He glances over at the other shooters. Thankfully, they aren't paying any attention to him. He resets his feet and raises the pistol.

_Click._ Empty.

Bob goes back over to the bench and sits. He ejects the clip into his lap, then turns the gun over, upside down. He holds it between his knees and shoves the other clip into the weapon.

Back to the range head, he pushes the button and brings the target in closer. Fifteen yards.

One of the other shooters glances over at him. Bob ignores the stares. He positions and aims. Three rounds. _Bang...bang...bang._

On the last round, the target moves slightly.

Bob lowers the pistol and checks the target. He sees one small hole in the lower-left corner, well outside the outer circle. "At least I hit the paper."

\---

Half an hour later, three empty ammo boxes litter the bench. Bob has shed his uniform shirt and is standing at the firing line in a sweat-soaked T-shirt. He lifts the pistol again and aims. _Bang...bang...click...._

Bob lowers the pistol, checks the target again. He sees three small holes, only one inside the outer ring. He shakes his head and starts gathering his trash.

\---

Bandits Baseball Field

Bob sits on the bench, watching the Bandits practice. Ramiro is at the plate, hitting fly balls and grounders. The infield and outfield chase them down, firing at first base to throw out imaginary runners.

Major Kepler walks up from behind Bob and plops down on the bench next to him. They watch quietly for a time before Kepler breaks the silence. "First game's coming up."

"Too soon," Bob says. "Next week."

"Any one of them a standout?" Kepler asks.

"Ramiro's a helluva' stick." Bob points at his catcher, still hitting practice balls. "JJ's a pretty good first baseman, when he's not pitching. The others are okay."

"Good," Kepler says. "Of course, you know great players win games, but it takes great teams to win championships."

Bob nods. "Yeah, I've heard that. We're getting better, but I'm not sure we'll have it all together before the first game. Championship may be out of the picture. We'll see."

"If you need a motivator, I have one." Kepler says. "I just found out the Dragons are offering walk-on tryouts to the team that wins the playoffs."

Bob looks at Major Kepler. "The Dayton Dragons?"

Kepler nods. "Yeah. Those Dragons. In fact, the playoffs are at Fifth Third Field."

"Tryouts for the whole team?" Bob asks. "Wow. I wouldn't be surprised if the Reds have scouts there. The Dragons are a Reds farm team."

Kepler nods. "That's possible."

"That would be a good motivator," Bob says. "Honestly, though, I don't think we have much of a chance to win the playoffs."

"Maybe," Kepler says. "But don't underestimate America's team."

"America's team?" Bob asks.

Kepler waves his hand at the baseball players in the field. "Can't you see it? Black. Hispanic. Asian. I think Santini is Italian. Where else can you find that much diversity?"

Bob smiles. "Diversity, sure. Skill... maybe not so much."

"I see some skill," Kepler says. "I think you do, too. Just need to hone it."

"Working on it," Bob says.

"Let me know if you need anything," Kepler says, standing.

"Yes, sir," Bob says.

As Major Kepler leaves, Bob walks out to the field, waves the team in. They jog in and crowd around their coach. "Okay, guys. I don't want you to get your hopes up, but after the final playoffs, the Dragons are going to hold open tryouts for the winning team."

The Bandits go crazy, jumping up and down.

"All right," Pauli hollers.

"We got this, Coach," Q says.

JJ pumps his fist into the air. "I'm gonna play baseball!"

\---

Government Office Building

Bob steps out of the elevator and through the doors into the Immigration Office. He walks up to the receptionist behind the half-wall.

"Is Ms. Kuznieski in?" Bob asks. He hadn't been able to get Julie off his mind since he first met her. The fact that she wasn't wearing a wedding ring was a positive, but Bob struggled with tons of self-doubt. Why would anyone as attractive as Julie consider going out with a one-armed sergeant?

The receptionist seems annoyed by the interruption as she looks up from a magazine. "Do you have an appointment?"

"No," Bob says. "I met with her a few days ago and was just stopping by to see if she's made any progress on a problem she offered to help me with."

"Oh," she says. "Just a sec." The receptionist picks up her phone and punches in two numbers.

"Julie, there's a Mister..." She reads his name-tape. "A Mr. Williams here to see you. He doesn't have an appointment."

She listens a moment. "Sure." She hangs up the phone and points at the plastic chairs in the lobby. "Just take a ...."

Before the receptionist can finish her sentence, Julie rounds the corner. She spots Bob in the reception area.

"Bob?"

"Julie, I hope you don't mind... we just finished practice..."

"I'm guessing you want an update on your friend?" Julie asks.

"Yeah, that... and I thought... was wondering..." Bob searches for the words. Fortunately, Julie's cell phone rings, saving him.

Julie pulls her phone out of her slacks pocket. She holds up a finger to Bob... one moment. She listens for a few seconds, then replies into the phone, "I'm so sorry, I'm on my way. I'll be there in ten minutes."

She closes the connection. "I have to pick up my daughter. I'm late. Tell you what, let me get my purse and I'll update you on the way down."

Julie turns to go back to her office.

Bob calls after her. "How about dinner?"

Julie stops, turns back. Considers. Smiles. "You like chicken nuggets? I promised my daughter."

Bob grimaces, forces a fake smile. "Love 'em."

"Okay, then." Julie smiles. "I'll be right back."

Bob only has to wait a moment before Julie returns with her purse. He holds the door for her as they step into the hall and he pushes the button for the elevator.

"I'm sorry, Bob," she says. "I almost forgot I was supposed to pick up my daughter early today."

"How old is she?" Bob asks.

"Eight. Her school's just a few blocks away. I promised her chicken nuggets tonight. I don't let her have fast food often, so tonight's a treat."

The elevator doors open and they step inside. Julie pushes the button for the bottom floor.

"Any word on Ramiro?" Bob asks.

"Nothing specific," Julie says. "I have a few discrete queries in to the State Department. I hope to know something in a week or two."

An awkward silence hangs over the pair as they ride the elevator down the two floors to the building entrance. Bob keeps looking at Julie, embracing her beauty. She spots him checking her out and he glances quickly away, but not before noticing her smile back at him.

They exit the elevator and Bob holds the door for Julie as they step into the bright sunshine.

"Mind if I drive?" Bob asks. Hoping to... no, needing to show Julie he's capable of doing most things with just one arm.

"Not at all," Julie says.

Bob leads her to his truck parked near the curb. He opens the passenger door, and helps Julie in.

Bob goes around to the driver's side and climbs in. He pulls his seat belt tight and reaches around with his left hand to put the keys in the ignition.

Julie curls up her nose. "Now, that's a familiar smell. You've been shooting?"

"Sorry," Bob says. "I didn't have a chance to clean up before going to ball practice."

Bob shifts into gear and slides into traffic.

"Turn right," Julie says. "It's not far. How'd you shoot?"

Bob shakes his head. "Not too well. It's pretty tough for a right-handed guy to shoot lefty.

"Not if you know what you're doing," Julie tells him.

"Huh? You know something about shooting?"

"A little," she says. "I can give you a few pointers if you'd like."

Bob smiles broadly. "You can? Right."

"Dad was a Marine," Julie says. "I've been shooting since the first grade, competitively since high school."

"Wow... yeah," Bob says. "I'll take all the help I can get. I have to re-qualify before I can get back to work."

Julie points at the private school coming up on their right. A few cars are parked along the curb, but there is space for several more. "Right here."

Bob pulls into one of the empty spaces.

Julie opens her door. "I'll go in and get her. Be just a minute."

Bob climbs out and walks around to wait on the sidewalk, leaning against his truck. He watches as parents come out with their children. He always wanted children, eventually. But now? He wondered what it'd be like, having a child, raising a child with just one arm. Would it make any difference?

Bob sees Julie step out of the school. Holding her hand is a cute little red-headed girl.

They walk up to Bob.

"Sarah, this is Mr. Williams."

Sarah looks up at Bob.

"Where's your arm?" she asks, innocently.

"Sarah, hush..." Julie says.

"It's okay," Bob says. "People ask me that all the time." He holds out his left hand. "It's right here."

Sarah shakes her head and points at his right side." No. I mean that arm."

"Oh," Bob says, smiling. "That arm. It's about halfway around the world."

"Don't you miss it?" Sarah asks.

"Yeah," he says. "I miss it a lot."

Sarah shrivels up her nose, thinking. "How do you tie your shoes?"

"Oh, that's easy," Bob says. He squats down in front of her and points at the zipper on his boot. He runs the zipper down and then back up. "See?"

"Enough questions, Sarah," Julie says.

"Watch this," Sarah says. She squats down and peels the Velcro back on her own shoe. "I can tie my shoes, but this is a lot easier."

"Kind of like my shoes," Bob grins widely. This is a sharp little girl, he thinks to himself. "Do you want something to eat?"

Sarah nods and smiles. "Chicken nuggets."

"All right, then," Bob says. "Let's go."

\---

Tigers Baseball Field

Bob has a slight case of first-game jitters. The Tigers' ballpark, though not grand, at least has grass in the infield and some wooden shelters that serve as "dugouts." The Bandits have taken their first at bat with no hits. Three up and three down.

The Bandits grab their gloves and head into the field as Josh Santini comes over and tosses his bat against the fence. He comes down into the dugout. The team encourages him with, "It's okay, Josh. Next time!" Ramiro slaps him on the butt. "You almost connected on that last swing."

The Bandits wait outside the dugout. Bob joins them. "Okay, Bandits," he says, "let's take the game to them."

The Bandits form a circle. Bob sticks his hand out, palm down. The rest of the Bandits crowd around and stick their hands in as well.

Ramiro sounds cadence. "One, two, three..."

"BANDITS!!" the team shouts in unison.

They break and head out onto the field. Their uniforms—jerseys and blue jeans—are a stark contrast to the Tigers' complete, regulation baseball uniforms. Bob makes a mental note to do something about that.

The Tigers are an older bunch. Grizzled. A short, stocky man with a long mustache is their lead-off batter. He steps into the batter's box. The chatter from the Bandits' infield doesn't faze him.

Bob stands in the entrance to the Bandits' dugout. He shouts to his pitcher, "Come on, JJ. Just put one over the plate. Let him see what you've got." He then shouts at the rest of the team, urging his defensive players, "Be ready in the infield!"

The batter taps the bat against each of his shoes, then glances out at the pitcher. He taps his bat on home plate, then raises it up over his shoulder.

The umpire surveys the field. Satisfied everything is ready, he shouts, "Play ball!" then squats down behind Ramiro.

JJ winds up and fires one at the plate.

The batter swings hard. Craackk as the hard wood strikes the ball.

All the Bandits in the infield stare skyward, following the ball as it sails far into right field. Mayday backs up...backs up...turns and runs for the fence, trying to keep his eye on the ball.

The batter knows what he has. He calmly tosses the bat over to his own dugout and starts jogging toward first base.

Mayday throws his glove on the ground as the ball easily clears the fence for a home run. Some kids race each other beyond the fence to get to the free baseball.

Ramiro stands up behind home plate, shaking his head. He turns to the umpire. "Not a good way to start the season."

The Tigers shout support as the batter trots around third and heads for home. They all rush out to greet him with high-fives at the plate.

Bob is still standing in the entrance to the dugout. He shouts at his pitcher. "Don't worry about it, JJ. Shake it off."

The next batter steps into the box. JJ fires another one in. The batter swings and connects, sending a grounder to third. Santini scarfs it up and fires it to first.

Shinji shrinks from the hard throw, but catches it in the tip of his glove. The runner, still several steps from the base, is obviously out.

The base judge quickly confirms it with a sweeping move and calling, "Runner's out!"

Bob jumps and shouts. "Way to go, Santini! Nice throw! Good catch, Shinji!"

The next Tigers batter slaps a hard drive over Q's head into left field. The runner makes it around first and holds at second.

The runner at second is aggressive. He takes a long lead off the base. JJ watches him closely. Pauli stands near second, just in case. JJ's eyes meet the runners. They hold for several long moments in a staredown. The runner tries another step toward third and JJ fires the ball to Pauli. The runner races back and dives low, touching the base just before Pauli can reach down to tag him. Safe.

Pauli throws the ball back to JJ and the game of cat and mouse starts again. This time, the runner doesn't take such a long lead off the base. When JJ launches his pitch, the runner breaks to steal third.

Ramiro will have none of it. The batter swings to block Ramiro's view of the ball, but that doesn't work. Ramiro grabs the pitch, and in one smooth motion, he stands and fires hard to Santini.

Santini grabs the throw at third and easily makes the tag. The runner is out at third.

Bob is all over the third base line, congratulating his team on some great plays.

Unfortunately, right after their impressive play at third the Bandits' luck changes.

A pair of doubles later, and a Tiger slides safely into home plate, making the second score of the game. Before the first inning is over, the Tigers are beating the Bandits three to nothing. Finally, a dribbling hit down the first base line allows JJ to grab it and throw the runner out at first, ending the misery.

The Bandits jog to the dugout, forlorn.

"Shake it off, guys," Bob says. "We have plenty of time to turn this thing around."

Privately, Bob isn't sure how the game will go. From what he's already seen, the Tigers are good. They have quite a few good sticks, and their defense is impressive as well. Bob knows his Bandits need a lift as they mope into the dugout.

JJ practices his swing on deck, and Q is waiting at the dugout entrance with his bat.

Bob waves JJ in and turns to Ramiro. "Ramiro, you take leadoff."

Ramiro quickly removes the rest of his equipment and grabs a helmet and a bat. He only gets a couple of practice swings in before the umpire calls "Play ball". Ramiro steps over to the batter's box and taps his bat on the plate.

The Tigers' catcher squats, punches his glove. "What is this? The blue jeans league?"

Ramiro ignores the snide comment and faces the pitcher.

The pitcher stares him down, then winds up and throws. Ramiro backs up from the plate, letting the first curve ball go by.

"Ball one," says the umpire.

Bob, coaching near first base, shouts at Ramiro, "Way to watch 'em, Ramiro."

The second pitch and Ramiro swings. Crack!

The Bandits' dugout erupts with cheers as Ramiro sprints for first. The ball flies well over the center fielder's head but doesn't quite reach the fence.

At first base, Bob waves Ramiro on, yelling, "Go. Go. Go!"

Ramiro makes the turn at first and races for second base.

The center fielder catches up with the ball. He snags it and throws it to second.

Bob yells from first base, "Hold up at second!"

Ramiro slides feet first to bleed his speed and beats the throw by a full second. He stands up on the base and dusts off his pants... safe.

The Bandits are elated, most of them standing outside the dugout, yelling and giving each other high fives.

In spite of the initial offense, the rest of the inning doesn't go as well. JJ is up next. He connects, but is thrown out at first. Q pop flies out, then Shinji swings at a two and two pitch, but doesn't connect. With three outs, Ramiro is left stranded on second at the end of the inning.

The rest of the game doesn't go as well, either, but at least the Bandits record a few runs, mostly on errors by their opponents. At the top of the ninth, the scoreboard shows the Bandits losing fifteen to six.

Ramiro is at bat, with Q on first. Ramiro singles into right center, but the Tigers' right fielder's throw beats Q at second. Game over.

Ramiro and Q droop back to the dugout.

The team slowly puts their equipment into their bag. They grumble about everything from the field to the calls the umpires made.

Bob trots in from his post as first base coach.

"All right, guys," Bob says. "You all did pretty good. Shake it off."

"Coach," Ramiro speaks for the team. "We need a pitcher." Ramiro slaps JJ on the shoulder. "No disrespect, man, but you suck."

Bob nods. "A deeper pitching bench wouldn't hurt. But don't kid yourselves, this is a team sport. I saw some pretty outstanding play out there today."

The team still grumbles.

Bob knows he has to do something to lighten the mood. "Heck. Pizza's on me. Let's get out of here."

\---

Security Forces Headquarters

Word travels fast around the security forces squadron. Early the next morning, Paul—the rent-a-cop who disparaged Bob's ability to coach and his potential as a cop—sneaks into the break room. He's carrying a large piece of brown paper rolled up under his arm. He stops at the door and checks the hall to make sure no one sees him.

He closes the door and carries the paper over to the bulletin board. He clears a spot and tacks the paper up with pushpins. The paper has a handwritten list of the twelve games the Bandits are going to play. Paul takes a marker and puts a big "L" beside the first game, then slinks out of the room.

\---

Bandits Baseball Field

Bob worries the Bandits might not show up for practice after their initial loss, but they are all there, practicing hard. Their defense is good, but Bob knows he needs to improve their pitching if the Bandits are to have a winning season. He stands near JJ at the pitching mound, watching his technique.

JJ winds up and throws a strike.

"Good throw," Bob says. "Now, let's try a small change in your—"

Beyond Josh, near the fence on the third base side, a young man dressed in a mixture of American and Arab garb steps through the gate.

Bob sees him first, recognizing him as the kid who threw in the ball the other day. He stares at the young man.

Q follows his coach's gaze from shortstop and sees the teen walking toward them.

"What the hell's he doing here?" Bob asks no one in particular, loud enough for the teen to hear.

The teen stops when he hears Bob's question.

Q trots over to greet the newcomer, yelling over his shoulder, "I asked him to join the team, Coach."

"What?" Bob asks. He glances around at his team, then back at the teen standing on the far side of the third base line. The teen has the olive skin of the Afghans Bob became so familiar with during his deployment—the same color of skin as the Afghans who planted the bomb that took his arm and killed Johnny. Bob wasn't sure where it came from, but he heard himself say in an angry tone, "We don't need him."

"Come on, Coach, give him a shot. You saw him throw," JJ says.

Bob shakes his head. "I doubt he even knows how to play baseball. Let's get back to practice." Bob waves the kid away.

The team wanders in toward the pitcher's mound. Ramiro is the first one there. "Can't hurt to find out, Coach."

Q waits with the teen, still standing near third base.

"Yeah, give him a chance, Coach," Pauli says. "Won't hurt nothin'." Pauli waves for Q to bring the kid over.

Q leads him toward the mound.

Bob definitely recognizes the look of the kid, like many he'd seen before in the 'Stan. He doesn't have a beard, but he wears a pakul and kamees, the Afghani hat and long shirt. Instead of the traditional Salwar, the kid wore blue jeans.

Seeing the young man takes Bob back to the 'Stan, back to the makeshift ballfield at FOB Victory. He is pitching, throwing to the young Afghan teen he let hit. Bob heaves the ball forward, but at low power. The young Afghan swings.

Bob drifts from the ballfield to the Humvee, pulling rear guard for the convoy. Johnny is riding shotgun, but things aren't right. Johnny is yelling at him, but Bob can't hear what he's saying. The crack that was the bat hitting the ball is now an explosion. Flames and smoke fill the inside of the Humvee. Bob reaches for Johnny, but Johnny is falling away and Bob can't reach him. Johnny falls farther and farther away....

"Coach! Coach? You all right?" Q asks.

Q's voice snaps Bob back to the present. "Uh... yeah. Yeah, I'm good."

Q introduces the young Afghani. "This is Aja, Coach. He's from Afghanistan."

Aja extends his hand to shake. He introduces himself with a very slight accent. "Glad to meet you."

Bob just stares down at Aja's hand. He doesn't extend his left like he normally does, just lets Aja stand there with his hand out. "You know how to play baseball?"

"Not much," Aja says. "Q says I should pitch."

Bob glares at Q.

Q shrugs. "Why not? We got no pitcher." He turns to JJ. "No offense, man."

"None taken," JJ says. "I should be at first, anyway."

Bob checks the faces of his team. Might as well get this over with so they can get back to practice. "Ramiro, let's catch a few. The rest of you hit the field."

The Bandits scatter to their positions, including JJ, who heads for first. Shinji goes to left field.

Bob looks Aja over with a wary eye.

Aja waits, not sure what to do.

Ramiro pulls his mask on and squats down behind home plate. He smacks his glove with his fist.

Bob starts to toss the ball to Aja, but notices he's bare-handed. "You have a glove?"

"No."

Bob shakes his head. He tosses the ball to Aja. "Wait a second." Bob walks over to the fence near first base and dumps the equipment bag. Several balls tumble out. And one glove.

Bob's glove.

Bob picks it up. He wipes the glove on his pants, stares at its seams, and rubs the worn spot on the inside of the index finger. He grew up with this glove. He checks the bag again, but there are no others.

Bob sighs, then walks back to the pitcher's mound. He slowly hands out the glove.

Aja reaches out to take it.

"It's a loaner," Bob says, before relinquishing his treasured ball glove.

Aja struggles to pull the glove on, finally figuring out how to wear it.

Bob taps his boot on the rubber. "You have to be touching this with your foot when you let go of the ball."

Bob points at Ramiro, crouching behind home plate. "It's pretty easy. Just throw it at Ramiro's glove."

Aja steps on the rubber and lobs the ball to Ramiro. An arcing, slow toss that lands in the center of Ramiro's glove.

Bob shakes his head. "Good accuracy, but you gotta throw it fast. A halfway-decent batter would have creamed that one."

"I should throw it hard?"

"Yeah," Bob says. "That's the idea."

Ramiro throws the ball back to Aja.

Aja holds his glove out as he's seen the others do, but the ball hits the edge of his glove and falls to the ground.

"You have to be able to catch, too," Bob says.

Aja picks the ball up off the ground, then steps back to the mound. He puts his foot on the rubber, then turns his attention to Ramiro. Aja waves his glove to tell Ramiro to get ready.

Aja cocks his arm back and gyrates through a bizarre windup, but when the ball leaves his hand it flies like a rocket.

Ramiro doesn't even have to move his glove. The ball slams into the center of it with a loud smack that even the outfield can hear.

"Hot damn, Aja," JJ shouts from first. "Way to throw the heat!"

Bob looks at Ramiro, then to Aja, then back to Ramiro.

Ramiro stands and throws the ball back to Aja, then massages his palm through his glove.

Aja catches the ball this time.

"That was pretty good," Bob says. "But you have to be able to throw a bunch of them that way. Enough for a whole game."

"I throw this way all day," Aja replies. He reloads and launches another speedball.

Another loud smack as the ball hits Ramiro's glove again, once more dead center.

This time the entire infield whoops.

Bob stares at Aja. "That is one ugly windup, but somehow you throw the heat. Let's see how you do against a batter."

Bob hollers to JJ. "Grab a bat. Let's see if you can hit against someone who can actually throw."

JJ trots in from first. He grabs a bat and steps into the box.

"Helmet!" Bob says.

"I don't need a helmet, Coach," JJ says.

"Maybe not before," Bob says. "But you do now."

JJ quickly grabs a helmet and moves back into the box. He digs his toe into the dirt, tapping the bat on the plate. "Bring it, Aja."

Bob explains to Aja, "It's no different. Just throw at Ramiro's glove."

Aja goes into his gawky windup and fires.

JJ swings hard, but gets nothing but air as the ball smacks into Ramiro's glove.

The infield whoops. Pauli makes fun of JJ's miss by going through the motion of a batter missing and almost falling down.

Ramiro throws the ball back to Aja.

"Again," Bob says.

Aja fires, and JJ swings again. Harder. Still nothing.

"Once more," Bob says.

Aja throws a fastball again. This time when JJ swings he gets a tiny piece of it, and the ball rattles off the backstop behind Ramiro.

JJ backs out of the batter's box. "Damn."

Ramiro chases down the ball and throws it back to Aja.

"Before you throw it this time," Bob says, "lift your left leg, like this."

Bob goes through the motions of a pitching windup, as best he can without his arm. Aja watches closely, then steps back onto the rubber. He waves his glove at JJ.

JJ steps back into the box, twists his toe into the dirt, and raises his bat.

Aja mimics the windup and launches again. His throw is even faster, but his accuracy is off and the ball goes hard inside.

JJ hurls himself out of the way, falling over backward. The infield laughs as JJ climbs back to his feet and dusts off. "Coach, let Aja throw it his way. I don't wanna get killed."

Ramiro throws the ball back to Aja.

"I guess it takes a little practice," Bob says to Aja. "Try it one more time."

Aja nods. He winds up, mimicking the way Bob showed him, and fires again. He launches a fastball that looks like smoke passing over home plate.

JJ swings so hard he almost falls over, but his bat touches nothing but air.

Even more laughs from the infield players as JJ puts his hand on the ground to keep from falling.

Bob pats Aja on the shoulder. "I think you're getting the hang of it."

\---

Small Arms Range Complex

Bob walks up to the counter in the shooting range.

Airman White puts down his Guns and Ammo magazine and stands up. "Hey, Sergeant. You ready to try it again?"

Bob nods at the lockers behind the Airman. "Yeah. I need an M-9 and a couple boxes of ammo."

"Right away, Sergeant." White gathers the equipment while Bob signs the form.

The door behind Bob opens and Julie comes in, wearing shorts and a form-fitting top. She spots Bob at the counter and walks over.

Airman White stops in his tracks. He stares at her, lost in his own little world.

Bob glances back at Julie, then turns to Airman White. "Reel your tongue back in, Airman. She's with me."

White snaps out of it, smiling. "Understood, Sergeant." He puts the ammo boxes on the counter, then pulls a pistol out of the cabinet and puts it down beside the ammo.

Bob looks back at Julie. "Hi. Thanks for coming. You're right on time."

"Glad to," Julie says. "Ready to send a few rounds downrange?"

Airman White frowns. "I'm sorry, Sergeant. She can't go into the range. It's against regs."

"Airman, she's my personal trainer and she's going back there with me. I don't want any argument."

"If it were up to me, Sergeant, no problem," White says. "But I can't. The old man'll have my ass."

Bob picks up the handset from the phone sitting on Airman White's desk. He gets a dial tone, then starts punching in numbers. "The old man? I suppose you mean Major Kepler. Do you want to speak to the major or do you want me to explain the situation to him?"

White pauses, then reaches down and kills the connection on the phone. He looks up at Bob. "This is just between us, okay?"

"That's good, son," Bob says. "I got your back if anything comes up."

Bob grabs the M-9, and Julie takes the ammo. They go through the door to the range.

Fortunately, no one else is on the range today. Bob sits on the bench, puts the clip between his knees and starts to load it. He watches as Julie quickly loads the other clip. She obviously isn't a stranger to a semiautomatic pistol.

They put on their safety glasses and ear protection, and Bob steps up to the firing line, holding the M-9. Julie stands behind him on his left side, observing.

Julie speaks loudly so Bob can hear her through his ear protection. "Fire a few rounds; let me see what you're doing."

Bob settles into his stance, levels the pistol, and aims. _Bang...bang...bang_.

Nothing on the target.

Julie changes her position so she can see over his right shoulder. "Again," she says.

Bob shrugs his shoulders and tries to relax. He gets back into his stance and levels the M-9 again. _Bang...bang...bang_.

Still nothing.

Julie taps Bob on the shoulder. He turns to look at her, pistol still pointed downrange.

"I think I see your problem," Julie says.

Bob pulls his ear protection off. "What?" he asks.

Julie points at Bob's right eye. "You're right-eye dominant."

"Well, I guess," Bob says. "I don't know."

Julie points at the corner of the wall and ceiling nearest where they stand. "Point at that corner," she says.

Bob puts the M-9 on the counter and points at the corner.

"Now, close your right eye," Julie says.

Bob squints.

"Still pointing at the corner?" Julie asks.

Bob shakes his head, still with his eye closed. "No."

"Definitely right-eye dominant," Julie says. "Just like you're right-handed ... or were, sorry."

Julie puts her ear protection back on. "Let's try again, but this time keep both eyes open when you shoot."

Bob gets into his stance and levels the M-9: _bang...bang...bang_.

The target pulses twice. One hole within the third ring, the other on the outer edge.

Bob grins. "Wow. Is that it?"

Julie smiles back at him. "That's most of the problem. Your left hand isn't as strong or as stable as your right was. We'll have to work on that, too."

"I've been doing a lot of therapy," Bob says, "trying to gain some strength."

"Let's work on your aim first," Julie says. She grabs a couple of shot bags from the corner and puts them on the firing ledge.

"Prop your arm on these," Julie says. "Squat if you have to. Keep both eyes open and give me another few rounds."

Bob lays his arm on the shot bags, bends his knees slightly, and aims: _bang...bang...bang_.

All three rounds land within the third ring.

"Hot damn," Bob says.

"Excellent!" Julie says. "With a little practice, you'll be at ninety-eight percent before you know it."

Ninety-eight percent. That's what Bob knows he needs to re-qualify to keep his job with security forces. It's within reach now, with Julie's help. "Julie, I owe you a ton."

"Maybe we can start with dinner?" Julie says.

Bob grins wide. "Absolutely."

\---

Bandits Baseball Field

As Aja pitches, Bob can't keep from thinking about how lucky he was to meet Julie. With her help at the shooting range, his future as a cop, though still not a certainty, might at least be within reach.

As Aja goes through his gawky windup, Bob keeps losing his focus. He drifts back to the 'Stan and that fateful day. In rehab they told him about 'triggers', things that would send him back to the bad times. For some it was a sound, for others it was a smell, for many it was visual, seeing something that reminded them of the deployment. Was seeing this young Afghani, so similar to the young man he had pitched to in that last game, Bob's trigger? He had nagging feeling that having an Afghan playing on the Bandits is a bad idea, even if they do need a pitcher.
Aja fires a fastball at the plate.

Q swings hard, but only slices through the air.

Ramiro tosses the ball back to Aja. "Way to bring the heat, Aja."

"Try that one again, and I'll knock it over the fence," Q says.

Aja goes through his windup and launches another burner.

Q swings at air again. "Dangit." He slams his bat on the dirt in frustration. "I almost had it that time."

Ramiro, chuckling, throws the ball back to Aja. "Thought you were going to knock it over the fence, Q?"

"One more," Q says, tapping the bat against the dirt and stepping closer to the plate before raising the bat over his shoulder.

"You're still swinging too late," Ramiro says. "That fastball is doing, like, a thousand miles an hour."

"I'll get it this time," Q says.

At the mound, Bob coaches Aja. "Try the windup I showed you." Bob goes through the motions, lifting his leg high.

Aja nods.

Q steps back into the box and raises the bat.

Aja mimics the windup that Bob showed him. This time he's accurate, and the ball screams at the catcher's glove.

Q swings at air again, almost falling over as the bat rotates around unopposed. The ball slams into Ramiro's glove with a loud smack.

Ramiro pulls off his glove and rubs his palm. "Make that a thousand and ten miles an hour."

Bob looks at Aja. In spite of his disdain for the Afghani, he can't help but be impressed. "Aja, you might just make a pitcher."

\---

Coyotes Baseball Field

A new day. Another game. It's a better field than before, Bob notices as he walks up to the fence and heads down the first base side toward the visitors' dugout. The grass is somewhat groomed, weeds mowed. The baselines are even marked. A few of the Coyotes fans sit in lawn chairs near their team's dugout, and a few more have settled in behind the backstop.

Ramiro greets Bob. "Everyone's here, Coach," he says.

"Good." Bob ducks his head and follows Ramiro into the dugout. He scans the team. They're quieter than they were before the last game. Most of the players are smiling, but not Aja. Aja appears nervous.

"Okay, guys," Bob says. "Shake off that first game. You've all been getting a lot better. We can take these guys."

JJ slaps Aja on the shoulder. "That's right, Coach. We can take these guys."

Bob looks at JJ, then at Aja. "Okay, we get to warm up first. Let's go."

The team starts out of the dugout, grabbing mitts and baseballs.

"JJ, you're pitching," Bob says.

The team slows, then stops and turns as one. Their jaws collectively drop.

JJ is the first to say what's on all their minds: "Coach, Aja should pitch."

Bob shakes his head. "Not yet. He's not ready."

"Sure, he's ready, Coach," JJ says. "He throws the smoke."

"Pitching is more than just throwing fastballs, you know that," Bob says. "A pitcher has to be able to field, make plays, bat... Aja's just not ready."

It's JJ's turn to shake his head. "Then I take back what I just said about beating these guys."

"Look," Bob says, "the Bandits can win this game, I know we can. You just have to play as a team and execute the way we've been practicing."

The Bandits grumble, and several shake their heads as they take the field.

Ramiro hands JJ a baseball as he steps out of the dugout. "Come on, bro. Let's warm up."

Aja remains in the dugout, expressionless, watching the Bandits warm up.

Bob stands at the dugout entry, watching his team. Every few minutes he steals a glance back at Aja.

\---

The Coyotes' pitcher is decent. He only allows two hits in the top of the first inning. Shinji steps into the box, with JJ on third and Ramiro on second. Shinji fails to connect, leaving the runners stranded.

The Bandits take the field, and JJ faces the first batter. He throws a fastball and the batter connects. Crack. A single.

The second batter up is a big guy. He swings hard, but the ball barely dribbles off between second and third.

Santini, playing third, squats and covers the ball just like Bob taught him. He stands quickly and fires it to second. Pauli tags the base and fires over to first.

Shinji shies away from the hard throw but manages to hang on for a double play.

Bob steps out of the dugout, pumping his left arm into the air and yelling encouragement. "Way to go! Nice double."

\---

Both teams play well until—at the bottom of the third and with no score—Ramiro steps up to the plate. He pulls his batting glove tight, then taps the plate with his bat.

The pitcher sizes him up and nods when his catcher signals for a fastball. The pitcher knows he's made a mistake as soon as the ball leaves his glove.

Ramiro waits just long enough. When it's time, he swings for a homer. Craaack!

The ball sails over the center fielder and toward the fence. Ramiro races for first.

JJ, coaching first, watches the ball hit the fence about halfway up. It bounces back into the field and stalls in the grass. JJ sends Ramiro on. "Go for third, Ramiro. Go. Go! Go!"

Ramiro races to second, tags the base, and takes a few steps toward third. He glances back at the outfield. He sees the center fielder just now catching up to the ball and turning to throw it in. He'll need to relay the ball in, which should give Ramiro just enough time. He hauls for third.

Bob, coaching third, holds his hands up for Ramiro to stop at third.

Ramiro slides into the bag well before the ball gets there from the relay throw by the shortstop. The third baseman throws the ball back to the pitcher as Ramiro stands and dusts himself off.

"Nice hit, Ramiro," Bob says.

"Thanks, Coach. Almost had a homer," Ramiro says.

"We'll take a triple," Bob tells him. Bob surveys the field, then glances over at Q walking from the batting circle toward the batter's box. He raises his hands and shouts at the umpire. "Time!"

The umpire calls the time out, and Bob waves for Q to meet him near their dugout.

They both turn away from the infield so they can't be overheard. Bob puts his arm around Q's shoulders. "I want you to bunt."

"But Coach, I can hit off this guy. I know it," Q says.

"I know you can," Bob says. "But they won't be expecting a bunt."

Q shakes his head. "I don't even know how to bunt."

"Just grab the end of the bat and hold it in front of the ball. Nothing to it," Bob says.

"Okay, Coach. I'll give it a shot."

Q steps toward the batter's box, and Bob trots back over to the third base coach's box.

"Play ball," the umpire calls.

The pitcher looks Q over, then takes a glance at third where Ramiro has taken a long leadoff. The pitcher winds up and fires.

Q steps into the plate and slides one hand down to the fat end of the bat. He holds the bat across the plate, waiting for the impact of the ball.

The ball hits the bat and dribbles out toward first base, barely in fair territory.

Q sprints for first, watching out of the corner of his eye as the pitcher races for the ball. Both men are on a collision course, but Q doesn't let up.

The catcher has to stay put at home, guarding against Ramiro. He glances at the Bandits' catcher, a short, wide freight train charging down the third base line.

The pitcher gets to the ball, barely inside the baseline, at the same time Q arrives on his sprint to first.

Q deviates slightly toward infield, putting himself on a path to run over the Coyotes' pitcher. Q even slows just a hair to make the pending impact even more inevitable.

The pitcher has a choice—he can dive for the ball and risk an interference call or wait for the runner to pass and try to make the throw to home in time. He opts to avoid the infield error and slows, watching the ball meander around Q's feet.

A split second after Q goes past the ball, the pitcher grabs at it. He finally snags it and spins, trying to tag Q. Too late, as Q is just out of reach. The pitcher continues his spin until he sees his catcher, standing between third base and home plate, right in Ramiro's path. The pitcher fires the ball to home plate, trying to save the run.

Again, too late. Ramiro steps around the catcher and stomps on the plate well before the ball arrives.

The catcher windmills the ball as soon as it hits his glove, firing it back to first, but again, it's too late. Q is safe.

The Bandits dugout erupts in shouts.

The scoreboard updates. Bandits lead one to zip.

\---

The scoreboard shows the bottom of the ninth inning. The Bandits are still leading one to nothing. The Coyotes are at bat, two outs, runners on first and second. Their biggest player steps up to the plate. He taps the bat on the plate and then points to left field.

Bob steps out of the dugout and shouts at JJ on the mound. "Don't pay any attention to him, JJ. Just fire 'em in."

JJ winds up and throws one across the plate. The batter swings for the fence, but hammers a line drive just left of first. Shinji runs and dives at the ground, reaching...snagging the ball before it can get past him.

JJ races the runner to first. Shinji, still on the ground, tosses the ball up to JJ as he runs by. JJ catches the ball and continues the race to first base. He gets there first and tags the base.

The Bandits erupt in shouts, tossing their gloves in the air as they jog in from the outfield, congratulating each other on their first win.

At the dugout, they swarm around Bob, high-fiving each other. Even Aja seems excited and joins in the fun.

Bob grins at his team and their enthusiasm after winning their first game. "Pizza's on me!"

\---

Marion's Pizza

Inside Marion's Pizza, the team sits along both sides of a long table, excitedly recapping the adventures of their first win.

A pair of servers brings over a stack of pizzas, scattering them on the tables in front of the ballplayers. Bob sits between Ramiro and JJ. They all grab for a slice of pie.

Julie comes inside. She searches the crowded restaurant, finally spotting the Bandits at the far end. She walks over to Bob. "I hear congratulations are in order."

Bob jumps to his feet. He grabs Julie in a one-armed hug.

The rest of the Bandits hoot and holler as their coach grabs the gorgeous woman.

Their coach looks back at the team, somewhat sheepishly. "Cut it out, guys. This is my friend Julie."

The team shouts their greetings while fighting over the pizzas.

Bob turns back to Julie. "Thanks for coming."

"Sorry I couldn't make the game," she says. "Sounds like it was a good one."

Ramiro stands. He shoves Q, sitting on his right. "Shift." Q and Shinji move down one, opening a space for Julie to sit next to Bob.

"Thank you," says Julie.

Bob and Julie sit down.

"Julie," Bob says, pointing at Ramiro, "this is Ramiro Sanchez."

Ramiro flashes a huge smile and shakes her hand. "Very pleased to meet you, ma'am."

Bob introduces the rest of the team, pointing them out one by one: "JJ, Shinji, Q, Pauli, Roger, Josh, Aja, Rocket, Saunders, and Mayday."

Bob grabs a cup from the stack and fills it from the pitcher of soda. He hands it to Julie.

Julie holds her cup up in a toast. "To the winners!"

The team goes wild.

\---

Security Forces Headquarters

Bob walks proudly into the break room, ignoring the two rent-a-cops sitting at the table drinking their usual coffee.

He takes a large marker and puts a big W on the butcher paper hanging from the bulletin board.

He turns and glares at the two men, then walks out.

\---

Bandits Baseball Field

A home game this time—the Bandits are playing on their own turf, such as it is. The scoreboard shows the Bandits winning, eight to two. Bottom of the eighth inning. Several onlookers are watching the game, mostly from lawn chairs they brought with them.

Shinji steps up to the plate.

Bob shouts from the third base coach's box. "Okay, Shinji. Just look it over before you swing."

Three young teenagers, two black and one white, approach from the street, strutting up to the few fans watching the game. The teens are loud, profane, and obnoxious. One of them pushes a little kid down.

Bob spots them from his coaching position just outside third base. He watches them briefly, then waves at Ramiro who's hanging on the fence near the rest of the Bandits sitting on the bench. Bob points at the teenagers. "You know those guys?"

Ramiro nods. "Yeah. Bunch of punks."

Bob looks back over at the plate. Shinji swings. Misses.

"Shinji!" Bob shouts. "Keep your eye on the ball!" He glances back at the punks.

The teens walk up behind an older woman, sitting in a lawn chair by herself.

The taller black kid, wearing a thick gold chain, grabs the woman's purse. She tries to hold on, but the others jump in. The white kid grabs the lady's arm and the other black kid, wearing a sideways ball cap, kicks at her. They wrestle the purse from her, yelling profanities as they run away.

Bob hollers to Ramiro. "You guys stay here." Bob leaves his post and runs through the gate. He spots the three thieves heading back toward the street. Bob launches into hot pursuit.

The thieves hear him and glance back. They pick up the pace of their escape, crossing the street and up an alley.

Bob turns the corner and races into the alley. The three punks are spread out, waiting for him. Bob quickly slows and scans the area, watching the three jerks. He knows better than to get trapped in their circle, so he moves around them as they all jockey for an advantageous position.

The black kid wearing the sideways baseball cap is the first to speak. "Yo, yo, yo... one-armed dude wanna' be a hero."

The white punk rushes Bob, taking a swing at him.

Bob easily dodges, pops out with his left fist. He connects, snapping the kid's head back. The kid goes down on one knee.

The kid with the hat is in the center. He appears to be the leader, motioning for the other two to circle Bob. He becomes Bob's primary target and Bob moves quickly toward him.

The kid with the gold chain is still carrying the purse. He gets in behind Bob and swings the purse at Bob's head.

Bob sees it coming out of the corner of his eye, but too late to dodge it completely. It lands across his right eye. Stinging and clouding his vision, Bob loses momentum. He swings around to address the new threat.

The white kid, back on his feet, closes in. While Bob's attention is on the kid with the purse, the white kid hits Bob in the back of his head.

Bob kicks backward—misses.

The leader of the group jumps into the brawl—he swings a rapid hook and connects with Bob's chin.

Bob staggers.

The gold chain kid and the white kid, still behind him, flail away at Bob's back. The white kid connects solidly with his fist. Gold chain kid jabs Bob's kidney.

Bob goes down to one knee.

"One-armed dude ain't so tough as he thinks," the kid in the hat says with a snarl. All three thugs circle, ready to pounce, when a small rock comes hurtling by and...

Smack.

...the kid with the hat goes down, dropping the purse, and clutching at his chest, sucking air.

Aja approaches, calm as can be. He tosses a heavier rock in the air casually, catching it and tossing it up again. He stares the punks down, daring any of them to approach.

Gold chain kid drops the purse. Holds his hands up. "Easy, bro."

Aja gets closer and closer, still tossing the rock in the air.

The kid with the gold chain backs up, splitting his attention between Aja and Bob. He gets close to the wall and stops. He shifts gears and lurches at Aja.

Aja's left arm pistons forward in a blur, fist crunching the kid's nose.

Gold chain kid squeals with pain and surprise. He grabs his face, blood spurting from beneath his hand.

The three punks re-group, wounded. They back quickly away and run out of the alley, leaving Bob and his pitcher.

Aja grabs Bob's arm, helps him back to his feet. "You okay, Coach?"

Bob regains his footing. "Yeah...I'm all right." Bob looks down at his missing arm. "I used to be able to take guys like that down... no problem."

Aja picks up the purse. They both head out of the alley.

"Don't worry, Coach. I've got your back."

They make their way back to the game. Aja returns the purse to the woman it was stolen from.

Bob checks the scoreboard. While they were gone, the Bandits scored another win.

\---

Baseball Field, Wright Patterson Air Force Base

Bob pulls into the empty parking lot. He looks out onto the baseball field, the field he used to love so much. Does he still love it? The last time he was here he tried to throw a ball over the plate, and he couldn't even come close. That had been a real downer for someone who used to routinely throw ninety-eight-mile-per-hour strikes.

Bob climbs out and pulls a large duffel bag out of the bed of his truck. He slings it over his shoulder and heads directly for the mound.

Bob puts the bag on the ground and pulls out a baseball. He digs his foot into the rubber, winds up, and fires. The ball goes wide.

He reaches down for the bag and empties it. Baseballs fall all over the ground. He picks up another ball and gets into his stance. He throws again. Way too high.

He throws pitch after pitch after pitch, focusing on fastballs, trying desperately to get the ball over the plate at a respectable speed.

An hour later, Bob is drenched in sweat. Most of the baseballs litter the area around home plate. He picks up the last ball near the mound and throws.

Not hard, but the ball passes nearly into the strike zone. A smile begins to cross his face.

He takes the bag and begins gathering the baseballs, putting them back in the duffel. Once done, he starts back toward the gate, but stops. He looks back at the mound. "What the hell," he says as he walks back to the rubber and dumps the balls on the ground once again.

\---

Bob's Apartment

The small table in the dining area is neatly arranged with two place settings on either side of a small bouquet of flowers in the center of the table.

The TV is on in the background. Baseball, of course. Cincinnati Reds against the Mets.

Smoke wafts in from the open door that leads to a small patio. Bob comes out of the kitchen and steps out through the sliding glass door. He lifts the lid to the grill. Two steaks sizzle over the flame. He flips the steaks and adds a little seasoning.

Bob closes the lid and steps back inside the apartment when he hears an interruption on the TV.

The announcer comes on, grim faced. "We interrupt the game with a special news bulletin. We just received a tape from Greg Irvin, our embedded reporter who has spent a year with an Army unit fighting in one of the most violent places in Afghanistan. Greg has routinely sent his 'Notes From the Front' news stories to keep the American people informed of the challenges still facing our armed forces overseas. We have flagged this story as urgent, and I think you'll see why."

Bob grabs his beer from the table, his eyes glued to the TV. It's very unusual for the network to interrupt a game, or any show for that matter, for a story on Afghanistan.

The announcer continues, "During a recent attack, Greg caught the scene on film. I must caution our audience that this report is very graphic."

A grainy shot of the inside of a military vehicle replaces the reporter's image. The camera pans to outside the window where a line of half a dozen military trucks moves ahead, driving up a dusty road. Without warning, the third vehicle in line erupts in flame.

Bob drops his beer, ignoring it as he moves closer to the TV. He watches as the trucks move quickly to form a perimeter around the burning vehicle. Bob knows the drill well.

The image bounces erratically as the reporter jumps out with his camera, moving toward the burning vehicle. The ground in front of him puffs up twice. The image flips upward, pointing at nothing but blue sky. Then the image bounces, focused on the burning vehicles ahead. It doesn't move again.

Bob plops down on the couch, takes a bottle of whiskey off the end table and twists off the top. He takes a long slug.

The TV announcer chokes on his next words. "Our intrepid reporter, Mr. Greg Irvin, was killed in the attack. This is his final report from the war."

\---

Julie stands outside Bob's apartment. She arranges her blouse and slacks and pushes a lock of hair back out of her face. Satisfied, she knocks on the door.

She waits for a few seconds, but there's no answer. She knocks again. Still nothing. She checks her watch. She's on time. She shouts through the door, "Bob? Bob, are you home?"

No answer. Julie twists the door knob. The door opens a crack. Julie calls through the crack, "Bob? Bob?" Still no answer.

She opens the door wider and smoke assaults her. She squints, sees Bob sitting on the couch. "Bob!"

As she swings the door open, she sees a thick fog of smoke billowing in from the porch. Julie rushes into the apartment and out through the sliding glass door. The smoke is coming from the grill, and she flings it open. She jumps back as flames leap out.

Reaching carefully below the grill, she turns off the gas, then grabs the cup of water sitting on the grill shelf and douses the flames. The steaks are toast.

She rushes back inside and over to Bob. "Bob, what's going on?"

Bob raises his whiskey bottle, nearly empty, toward the TV. "They did it again... the bastards did it again."

"What?" Julie asks.

"Damn ragheads. They're still killing the guys." A tear runs down Bob's cheek.

Julie glances at the TV. A baseball game is on.

Bob takes another long slug from the whiskey bottle. "It's never going to stop."

Julie sits down beside him. "It'll stop, Bob. It's got to stop."

She flips to a channel with music, waits a few minutes, and then says quietly, "I think you should get some help, Bob. The booze won't do it. Believe me, I've been there. I went through this with my dad."

"I don't know," Bob says.

"You want me to just hang out here for a while?" Julie asks.

Bob doesn't say anything.

Julie kicks off her shoes and puts her feet up on the coffee table. She looks over at him, then takes the whiskey bottle and puts it out of his reach. She takes his hand in hers and moves closer to him. "I'm here for you, Bob, but promise me you'll get some help."

\---

Badgers Baseball Field

Two Air Force passenger vans, customary blue color, pull to a stop in the gravel parking lot next to a well-groomed baseball field. Major Kepler drives one, Bob the other.

The Bandits climb out.

"Where the hell are we, Coach? " JJ asks.

"Middle of frickin' nowhere," Shinji says before Bob gets a chance.

"Nice ball field, though," Q says.

There are dugouts, a concession stand, even an electronic scoreboard. Bob leads the Bandits to the visitors' dugout.

Bob addresses the team once they're settled into the dugout. "Don't take these guys for granted. This may be a podunk little town, but from the looks of this field, these folks take their ball seriously."

"No problem, Coach," JJ says.

"These country towns can have strong teams," Bob says. "Let's just get out there and show 'em how to play ball."

The Bandits all step out of the dugout, gathering just outside the entrance. They look across the field at the Badgers' dugout. The Badgers are older; several appear to be in their mid-thirties. The Bandits are heading out to the field to warm up when one of the Badgers, a short, stocky guy with tattoos all over his arms, sees them staring in his direction. He doesn't hesitate and flips them his middle finger.

Bob sees the jerk, and notices JJ and Shinji are about to return the gesture.

"Hey," Bob says.

Shinji and JJ both look his way.

"Ignore him," Bob says.

"Right, Coach," JJ says.

"All hands in," Bob says.

The Bandits form a circle, piling their hands, one on top of the other, in the center.

In unison, they shout, "Bandits... Bandits... Bandits!" They break their chant with high fives and pats on the back.

Bob picks up his clipboard and checks the roster. "Q, you're up first.... JJ's on deck."

Q and JJ each grab a bat and start swinging to loosen up. Bob grabs a helmet and heads for first base to coach. Ramiro heads to third. The rest of the team piles back into the dugout, shouting encouragement to Q as he steps into the batter's box.

No luck for the Bandits in their first at-bat against the Badgers. The Bandits go without a score through the top of the first inning as the Badgers' pitcher takes control. He allows a couple of hits and even walks one Bandit, but three strikeouts and the inning is quickly half over. As the game rolls into the bottom of the first inning, the Bandits grab their gloves and get ready to play defense.

Bob comes trotting back from first base. "Some nice hits, they're a good ball team. But now it's our turn to show 'em how to play ball."

The Bandits head out to the field. JJ waits for instructions from his coach.

Bob looks at Aja. "You ready?"

Aja nods. "Yes."

"Okay," Bob tells him. "Nothing fancy. Just fastballs. Show 'em what you're made of."

"Right, Coach, "Aja says. He grabs his glove and heads for the mound.

"All right," JJ says, slapping Aja on the butt as their new pitcher heads out to make his debut.

"Okay, JJ," Bob says. "Take first. Send Shinji to right field. Have Mayday come back in."

"Will do, Coach." JJ heads for first base, yelling at the rest of the team, "Aja is pitching!"

Aja walks out to the pitcher's mound. The Bandits see the change-up and all yell in approval.

Bob turns to Major Kepler, standing with him in front of the dugout. "Watch this kid throw. I've never seen anything like it."

"Better than you?" Kepler asks.

"You mean better than I was, before I lost the arm?" Bob watches Aja fire a practice pitch. "Yeah.... I think so."

Kepler watches Aja throw. "Wow. He's got some speed on that thing. Ugly windup, though."

The umpire walks out to home plate. "Let's go!" He dusts off the plate and moves into position behind Ramiro.

The first Badgers batter, a short, stocky player, steps up to the batter's box. He's wearing a short-sleeved jersey, sporting big tattoos on his bulging biceps. SMITH is stenciled on the back of his shirt.

He looks at Aja, down at Ramiro, then back at Aja. He taps the bat on his shoe, and then checks out the rest of the Bandits team. He steps into the batter's box and taps his bat on home plate. He smirks as he glances back at Ramiro. "What the hell is this, some kind of foreign league?"

Ramiro ignores the comment, smacks his fist into his catcher's mitt and twists his feet into the dirt as he settles into his squat.

The umpire leans down behind Ramiro. "Play ball."

Aja watches as Ramiro signals for a fastball. Aja nods, then steps onto the rubber. He gyrates through his strange windup and launches a meteor.

Smith lets the first one go by. He steps back out of the box and taps the bat on his shoe again. He addresses Ramiro, but loud enough for the entire infield to hear, "Whoa... that raghead has an arm, don't he?"

Smith steps back into the batter's box. He taps the bat on the plate, and then loads it up over his shoulder.

He yells to Aja, "Bring that one again, ya' little raghead. I'll show ya' how I hit them things."

Aja winds up, fires another one.

Smith swings hard at the fireball that screams over the plate, but misses.

"Striiike!"

Smith slams his bat onto the ground. His face glows red as he backs out of the box and kicks the dirt with his foot. He finally calms down and steps back into the box. He yells at Aja, "What the hell kinda' windup is that? You havin' some kind of spaz attack or something?"

Smith gets serious. He spits into his gloved palms and twists his hands tight around the bat handle. He quickly pops the bat up over his shoulder. "Bring it again, boy," Smith yells to Aja.

Aja winds up and gyrates again, launching another rocket.

Smith swings and connects. Crack!

Shinji backs up in right field, farther, farther, until he finally turns and runs to chase the ball as it flies over his head.

Smith turns at first—at the base coach's orders—and continues his sprint toward second base.

Shinji chases the ball down quickly. He snaps it up, turns, and throws all the way into second base.

The race is going to be close. Smith turns and pushes his feet in front as he begins his slide.

Pauli stands with his left foot on the bag and reaches to his left to snag Shinji's throw. Once he has the ball, Pauli makes a sweeping turn and reaches down with his glove to tag Smith.

The race is close, but the base umpire calls Smith safe.

Smith stands and dusts himself off. "Hot damn," he says to Pauli. "Almost had the fence with that one. I will next time, you watch."

The next batter, Williams, steps into the batter's box.

Smith claps his hands, takes a lead off second. "Okay, Williams. Let's show 'em how American baseball is played."

Aja gets ready to start his windup.

"Hey," Smith shouts from near second base, trying to disturb Aja. "You boys did know this was an American sport, didn't ya? Any of y'all American?"

Aja isn't fazed. He fires a fastball as Smith takes a few more tentative steps toward third.

Williams lets the speedball go by.

"Strike one!"

Smith steps slowly back toward second, shouts to Aja, "Hey, raghead. Think you can throw me out?"

Aja keeps his eye on Smith, stepping farther and farther toward third. Aja isn't ruffled, though, as he winds up and fires another fastball.

Williams swings, but gets nothing but air.

Ramiro catches the burner and quickly stands, stepping around the batter and threatening to throw to second.

"Strike two!"

Smith takes a couple of steps back toward second, but stops short. He looks directly at Ramiro, clapping his hands together... taunting him.

Ramiro doesn't take the bait either, and throws the ball back to Aja.

Aja stares hard at Smith. If Smith hopes to rattle Aja he isn't doing it. Aja remains calm and collected. When Smith finally moves back to stand on second, only then does Aja touch the rubber with his foot and turn his focus to the batter.

As soon as Aja turns to the batter, though, Smith takes an even longer lead off second. "Come on, raghead. Think ya can throw me out?"

Aja glances at him, but then winds up and throws a smoker at home plate.

Williams swings at air again.

"Strike three! You're out!"

Smith steps back to second base while the batters switch out. He continues to harass Aja. "That's nothing, raghead. Williams is our worst batter, anyway. But here comes Detmer. He's gonna hammer you, boy!"

Detmer, a big man with the muscles of a body builder, steps into the box.

Smith shouts from second, "Detmer, blast this raghead. Bring me home." Smith takes another long lead off second base and starts harassing Aja again. "Detmer likes them fastballs. Likes to hammer 'em all the way over the fence. Go ahead and throw him one, raghead."

Aja keeps one eye on Smith as he sizes up the new batter.

Smith takes an extra step toward third. "Come on, raghead. You know you wanna try."

Aja pulls the ball to his chest. He stares hard at the batter, and then glances back at Smith. Aja takes a chance and fires the ball at Pauli on second. The angry throw goes wide and Pauli misses it.

Smith starts back to second, but when Pauli misses the throw, he scrambles back the other way—makes it cleanly to third.

The third base coach urges him on to home.

Smith turns the corner and glances back to see where the ball is. The fielder hasn't quite caught up to it, so Smith accelerates toward home plate.

Rocket, in left field, races to recover the overthrown ball. He reaches it just as Smith turns the corner at third and heads for home.

Ramiro stands his ground on the third base side of home plate. The throw from Pauli is accurate and takes a single bounce right into Ramiro's glove. Ramiro turns to face Smith, just as Smith starts into his slide.

Smith alters his slide, digs his foot into the dirt and comes erect, slamming into Ramiro full-force. Smith's momentum throws Ramiro backward, landing him flat onto his back. The ball goes flying.

Smith stomps on the plate with both feet.

"Safe!" the umpire calls.

Smith walks over to Ramiro, still lying flat on his back, sucking for air. Smith leans over to get into Ramiro's face, waves his finger at him. "Next time you best stay outta my way, Mescan."

Bob rushes out of the dugout toward home plate, his face red with anger. "What the hell, Ump? Are you going to let him get away with that?"

The umpire turns to face Bob as Aja helps Ramiro to his feet. "No foul," the umpire says to Bob. "Catcher was in the base path."

Smith turns when he hears Bob arguing with the ump. "What are you..." Smith points at Bob's missing arm. "What is this? You're the coach?"

Smith laughs, turns, and hollers toward his dugout where his team is starting to file out. "Look at this, guys. Single-wing here is the coach."

Bob heads toward Smith, but Ramiro steps between them.

"It's okay, Coach," Ramiro says. "Just turn your back on him and walk away. We're in Redneckville, just have to expect this."

"Bunch of idiots," Bob says.

"You get used to it, Coach," Ramiro says as he follows Bob back toward the dugout.

"Let's play ball," the umpire calls.

Bob continues on to his dugout, fuming, face red. He turns back to face the team out in the field. "Just ignore the jerks; let's take the game to them." Bob stops and stands in the entrance to the dugout. "Let's go."

The game continues to be tough. By the bottom of the second inning, the Badgers are leading by three. Bandits zero. Smith continues to be the jerk, constantly taunting Aja and the rest of the team with insulting slurs and demeaning comments about their differing heritages.

Aja continues to throw fastballs with an arm that never seems to tire. Unfortunately, he doesn't know how to throw anything else.

Ramiro hits well against the Badgers' pitcher, with one homer and a couple of deep center hits that allow a few runs to score.

In the end, though, the Bandits can't pull it off. The final score is Bandits four, Badgers eight.

\---

Back in the dugout, the Bandits gather their equipment for the ride home. Bob can tell they're all depressed about the loss. Bob knows he hasn't helped. Losing his cool after Smith knocked Ramiro down wasn't a good thing to do in front of these young men.

"Hold up, guys." Bob stands in the dugout exit, blocking anyone from leaving. "I want to apologize for my attitude and actions on the field today. It was inappropriate and wrong."

The team is quiet. Q is the first to speak up. "It's okay, Coach. The redneck just got under your skin. Mine, too. Thanks for having my back out there."

Bob looks over his team. He is learning as much from them as he hopes they are from him. "Okay, guys. Thanks. And one more thing. The scoreboard says we lost this game, but you guys played better than ever. I've seen tons of improvement just in the last couple of weeks. Don't let this game throw you. Even though they're a bunch of redneck jerks, they know how to play ball... they've obviously been playing a long time."

Kepler walks up behind Bob. "You guys ready to hit the road?"

"Yeah," Bob says. He steps back and lets the Bandits come out of the dugout. He and Kepler follow them to the vans.

"Let's stop at Marion's on the way back," Kepler says. "My turn to buy the pizza."

\---

Security Forces Headquarters - Break Room

Paul, the rent-a-cop, stands at the paper scoreboard in the otherwise empty break room. He picks up a marker and puts a big L on the fourth line. He smiles smugly, then turns and leaves.

\---

Bandits Baseball Field

Bob waits at their bench for the Bandits to arrive. He is concerned they might not show. The game against the Badgers was a tough loss. That, plus the incessant insulting rants from Smith weighed heavily on Bob. He needn't have worried.

Ramiro shows up first, wearing his jersey instead of his usual practice T-shirt. He turns his back to Bob.

"Check it out, Coach," Ramiro says.

The word MEXICO is stitched onto his jersey just below his name.

"What's that for?" Bob asks.

"Those rednecks," Ramiro says. "They were making fun of us. They don't understand... we're proud of where we're from."

JJ strolls up.

"Show the coach, JJ," Ramiro says.

JJ turns. KENYA is stitched onto his jersey.

"I thought you were born in Philly?" Bob asks.

"I was," JJ answers. "Ancestry-dot-com, bro. I got legacy tying me to Kenya."

"Nice," Bob says. "You all did this?"

"Every one of us," JJ says.

When the rest of the team arrives, Bob has Ramiro run them through some warm-up drills. Then they take the field for some batting practice.

Q grabs a helmet and bat.

At the pitcher's mound, Bob holds the ball in his left hand. "Just the two fingers, like this. Got it?" Bob shows Aja how to grip a curve ball.

"Yes," Aja says.

Bob tosses Aja the ball. "Give it a shot."

Aja toes the rubber, starts into his gawky windup. He launches it... hard... right for the plate.

Q eyes the pitch and thinks he has it nailed. He goes into his swing, but the ball breaks steeply outside and Q gets air.

Q steps back out of the batter's box. "Shit, Aja. Helluva' curve."

"Language, Q. Take a lap."

"Awe, come on Coach," Q says.

"You know the rules. Hit it!"

Q drops the bat and starts down the dirt outside the first base line toward right field.

An older man wearing full Arab garb, including a headdress and sunglasses, approaches from the bench near first base. He stops outside the baseline and waves. "Aja!"

The team stops to check out the stranger wearing the unusual clothes.

"I will wait here," the man shouts to Aja.

Bob drops the ball he's holding. He gets light-headed. In his mind, he's back in the humvee, back in Afghanistan. Johnny sits beside him, pointing at an insurgent on top of a building. Bob follows where Johnny is pointing, sees the Afghan, full Arab garb, headdress, sunglasses.

The bomb explodes beneath their truck. Johnny is engulfed in flame. He falls away. Everything goes dark... When he regains consciousness, Bob finds himself in a helicopter. Wind whips into the helo's open side door. The door gunner pounds the area with automatic fire. Casings cascade down onto the metal floor deck of the helo, dropping around Bob's severely injured body.

A figure above him, a flight medic, holds an IV bag. Bob watches him mouth words over the ringing in his ears. "Hang on, buddy. Hospital's only a few minutes out."

The aircraft bumps in the air, the medic reaching over to grab a cargo net to keep his balance. Everything goes dark again.

When he wakes again, Bob is in the field hospital. Overhead lights fly by as they rush his gurney down the hall, a nurse on one side and the medic on the other. The gurney takes a sharp turn and a pair of large doors bang open.

The nurse pulls down her face mask. He can barely make out her words over the ringing in his ears: "It's okay, Sergeant. We're going to take good care of you."

Bright surgery overhead lights fade to darkness.

When he wakes again, there is bright sun overhead, then a face. The young Afghan ballplayer. He's holding a ball glove. The Afghan's face turns very sad. He tucks the ball glove into the gurney next to Bob.

The glove fades in and out. When it comes into focus again, Bob is in the hospital room in Germany. He tries to reach for the glove, but realizes he has no arm. He screams, grabs the ball glove with his left hand, and throws it at the TV. The glove seems to fly in slow motion. Bob feels someone shaking his shoulder.

"Coach?" Aja says. "Coach, are you okay?"

Startled, Bob swings out with a left hook.

Aja easily dodges Bob's fist.

The Arab man makes a mad dash for the pitcher's mound. "Stop!"

JJ runs over from first base. "Coach! Coach, snap out of it!"

The Arab reaches the mound and steps between Bob and Aja. He pushes Aja back, extending his other arm toward Bob, using his body to effectively protect Aja.

JJ does the same to protect Bob. He steps between them, facing the Arab. "It's okay, man. No problem."

Bob shakes his head. Though it's still fuzzy, he has a sense of what just happened. "What the...?" He looks past the Arab at Aja. "I'm sorry, Aja."

"Why did you strike at my son?" the Arab asks.

"It was a reflex. I'm sorry," Bob says.

Aja puts his hand on his dad's shoulder. "It's okay, Father. This is our coach. He has flashbacks. From the war. Coach, this is my father, Kourash."

Kourash turns his attention from Aja back to Bob, studying him. Finally, he nods and extends his left hand to shake.

Bob looks at Kourash's hand. He doesn't move at first, then finally reaches forward and takes Kourash's grip and shakes.

When they release, Kourash puts his hand to his heart, nods. "I understand. We all have the nightmares."

Bob nods.

Kourash turns back to his son. "I'll be over here," he says, pointing at the fence by first base. He wanders back over to the sideline. Kourash spends the remainder of the practice watching closely from the sidelines.

\---

The remainder of the practice goes without event. Bob continues to help Aja develop his curveball, and the rest of the team practice their fielding and batting skills. They practice almost until sunset. Finally, darkness overtakes them.

The Bandits leave the field. They are tired, but Bob is grateful they still maintain a winning spirit, even after the fiasco with the Badgers. Perhaps these kids have lived with that kind of discrimination and hatred all their lives, something Bob never had to face.

Bob spots Ramiro leaving with the rest of the team, carrying his bag of equipment with him.

"Hey, Ramiro..."

Ramiro looks back at Bob. "Later, guys," Ramiro tells the others, then turns and trots back to the field. "'Sup, Coach?"

"I need a target," Bob says.

Ramiro smiles. "I'm ready." He puts his glove on and starts back toward home plate.

"Not here," Bob says. "Let's go for a ride."

\---

Bandits Baseball Field

The Bandits face yet another team on the Bandits home turf, such as it is.

Mayday works the scoreboard, hanging the numbers by hand. Top of the eighth inning. Bandits are up six to two.

Aja is pitching. He winds up and fires a hot one.

The batter swings. Nothing.

"That's three," the umpire says. "You're out!"

The Bandits come in from the outfield.

"You're up, Ramiro," Bob says.

Ramiro plops down on the bench, unclipping his shin guards.

Bob pats him on the back. "Don't swing for the fence, just get on base. Q's behind you, he'll bring you in."

Ramiro looks sideways at Q. "Q? Q can't hit."

"Can't hit?" Q says. "You just watch me!"

Ramiro grabs his bat and steps over to the batters' circle. He takes a couple of practice swings while the opposing pitcher warms up.

Bob stares out at the crowd. He waves at Julie and her daughter, sitting with a very small group in lawn chairs near the fence.

The umpire waves Ramiro over. "Let's play ball!"

Ramiro steps into the batter's box. He eyes the opposing pitcher.

The pitcher winds up. Throws.

Ramiro lets it go by.

"Ball one!"

Bob and the team encourage Ramiro from the dugout. "Good eye, Ramiro," Bob shouts. "Way to watch it."

A car slides to a stop in the gravel parking area near the Bandits' dugout. An older Hispanic woman climbs out, leaving the car running in the middle of the parking lot. She runs toward the bench, but spots Ramiro at bat and changes course toward the backstop. She grabs the fence wire. "Ramiro! Ramiro!" Tears stream down the face.

Ramiro sees her, too, and immediately steps out of the batter's box. "Mom? What's wrong?"

The umpire stops the pitch. "What gives, batter?"

"The police came with their papers," Ramiro's mom says. "We're being deported. I don't know what to do!"

Julie gets up from her lawn chair and rushes over to Ms. Ramiro near the backstop.

Ramiro and Bob reach Ramiro's mother at the same time, standing on the field side of the fence.

Bob turns to the umpire. "Time out, Ump."

The umpire holds his hands up. "Time!" He turns to watch the interruption with interest. "Better make it quick, Coach."

Ramiro's mother is trembling. "They're kicking us out. You must come home."

Julie puts her arm around Ramiro's mother.

Ramiro tosses his helmet and bat over near the bench and heads toward the gate at a trot.

"Ramiro!" Bob calls after him.

"I gotta go home, Coach." Ramiro jogs through the gate, then over to his sobbing mother. He takes her arm and guides her back to the car.

After Ramiro and his mother are out of earshot, Bob whispers to Julie, "Can they be deported?"

"It's hard to say," Julie says. "It's possible my questions caused someone to flag their status. I'm so sorry." She puts her hand on the fence, fingers gripping the chain link.

Bob puts his hand on hers. "Can you check on it?"

"Of course," she says. "I'll go check on Ramiro and his family, first." Julie turns and heads back to her daughter.

The umpire is becoming impatient. "Come on, Coach. We have a game to play."

"Hold on, Ump," Bob says. He shouts to Julie as she is gathering her daughter to leave. "Call me!"

Bob trots back over to the bench. "Guys, I gotta get over to Ramiro's place. We're winning, so let's finish this game quick. You're up, Q. Take a walk, strike out, I don't care. Just make it fast.

Q grabs a bat and heads for the batter's box. "Got it, Coach."

\---

Apartment Complex

Bob steps out of his car in a modest neighborhood of small apartment buildings.

Julie stands near her car in the front of a large building. Sarah sits inside. Julie sees Bob and walks to meet him. "They're gone."

"Gone where?" Bob asks.

"To stay with a friend," Julie says. "They're scared to death."

"It's true, then?" Bob asks.

"I don't know, but they think so. Someone came by."

"Who?"

Julie shrugs. "It might have been Immigration, but they need a reason to snoop around."

"This isn't right," Bob says. "Ramiro is a hard worker. He and his dad are both in construction. They're roofers. They aren't deadbeats. And they aren't run-of-the-mill border crossers. They came here because they helped our government. They came here at the invitation of our government."

Julie looks at him quizzically. "Sounds like you know something that isn't in the records."

"I can't say anything," Bob says. "Just trust me; they're here because they did something good, something that helped the United States. We can't let them be deported."

Julie nods. "I'll swing by my office. Make some calls." Julie steps closer to Bob. She takes his hands and looks in his eyes. "Did you call someone?"

Bob avoids her gaze. "No. Not yet."

"I wish you would. They can help. I know they can," Julie says as she puts her arms around him.

Bob holds her close, feeling the anger drain from his mind.

\---

Security Forces Headquarters - Break Room

Bob is surprised the rent-a-cops aren't guzzling their morning coffee. In fact, the break room is empty. The tote board shows two more wins, and Bob proudly walks up to the brown paper and adds another W to the string.

He's about to turn away when he notices a new sign on the bulletin board:

PTSD? STRESS? DEPRESSION? WE CAN HELP. CALL 257-8643

Bob's shoulders sag. He glances at the nearby phone on the wall and reaches for it. His hand stops a few inches from the handset, and he withdraws, shaking his head. He starts to walk away, but stops before he gets to the door. He thinks about Julie, about what she asked him to do. It can't be that hard, and such a little thing. He turns back and picks up the phone, then punches in the number.

The phone rings on the other end. Once. Twice. Three times. Bob is about to put the handset back on the hook when there's an answer.

"This is Chaplain Peters."

Bob starts to speak, but stops. He hadn't thought this through, didn't know the phone number was to the Chaplain. What was he going to say?

"Hello?" Peters asks, his voice calm.

"Oh, uh. Hi." Bob can't find the words. He pulls the phone away from his ear and uses his sleeve to wipe the sweat from his forehead. He stares at the phone, hears a faint voice coming from the earpiece.

"Hello?" Chaplain Peters asks again.

Bob puts the phone back to his ear and talks into the mouthpiece. "I... uh... I'm sorry, this was a mistake." Bob closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

"It's not a mistake," Chaplain Peters says. "You called to talk. I answered to listen. Take all the time you need. You don't even have to tell me who you are, but that would help."

Bob leans forward and rests his head against the wall, eyes still closed. "I think I'm okay, but my friend asked me to call."

"Sounds like you've got a good friend," Peters says. "Why do you think your friend wanted you to call me?"

"I just... I kinda... I kinda lost it a few days ago," Bob says.

"What does that mean, 'kinda lost it'?" Peters asks.

Bob waits a long moment. He isn't sure whether he is embarrassed about what he did, or whether admitting there might be an issue will result in an extensive "therapy" session. He doesn't want to be pulled off the line and into some psych ordeal. Better to leave out the details. "I had a little flashback. That's all."

"I take it you've been overseas?" Peters asks.

"Yeah," Bob says. "The 'Stan."

"Me, too," Peters says. "When did you get back?"

Peters was making this easy. Bob was already feeling at ease talking to someone who had at least been where he had. Bob thought about the time. How long had he been back? Although it seemed like a lifetime, he counted the months and was surprised at the answer himself. "Six months, not counting the time in Landstuhl."

"Landstuhl? You were wounded, I take it?"

Bob looks at his arm. "Only part of me."

There was a long silence before Chaplain Peters spoke again. "Listen, I'm more than happy to keep talking on the phone if that helps you, but I really prefer to meet with people face-to-face. Is that something we could do?"

Bob thought about that for a few long seconds. "I don't want to be pulled off my job."

"I understand," Peters says. "I'm just here to help point you in the right direction, just to listen, if that's what you want."

Bob thought it over. He thought of Julie again, of how she just sat beside him on the sofa after he destroyed the steaks. It was the least he could do. "I think we could meet."

"Good," Peters says. "When is a good time for you?"

"How about tonight, after work, say eighteen hundred?" Bob asks.

"Anytime works for me," Peters says. "Mind telling me who you are?"

\---

Security Forces Headquarters

Bob knocks on the edge of the open door and steps into Major Kepler's office. "You asked to see me, sir?"

Kepler looks up. His eyes are red. "Yeah, Bob. Close the door and take a seat." Kepler closes the folder he was reading.

Bob shuts the door behind him and takes a chair near Kepler's desk.

Kepler pauses for several seconds before speaking: "I've got some bad news." Kepler takes another second or two. He turns his gaze away before continuing. "We got hit again. IED."

Bob clenches his jaw, and then asks quietly, "How many, sir?"

Kepler finally turns his attention back at Bob. "Three KIA. Six wounded."

Bob wasn't expecting this. Not so soon. "Shit." He stares at the floor for a bit before looking back up at the Major. "All from Wright Patt?"

Kepler nods. "Parker. Dunn. Bradford. You knew 'em?"

"I know them...." Bob says. "I know all of them. I threw against Bradford before I left. We called him Sergeant Invincible. He was fearless... a great guy. They all were."

"I wanted you to hear first," Kepler says.

"I appreciate that," Bob says.

"Their bodies will go through Dover first," Kepler says. "Then on to their hometowns."

"Bradford's a local," Bob says. "He's from Fairborn."

Kepler nods. "They're sending a casualty notification team to his folks today, so keep this close for now."

"We need to have a memorial service. It's only right," Bob says.

"I'm heading over to see the Chaplain in a few minutes," Kepler says.

"Peters?" Bob asks.

"Yeah, Captain Peters. He's a good man. He used to be a cop, believe it or not."

Bob stands up. "A cop? Wonder how he ended up a chaplain?"

"I always wanted to ask him," Kepler says. "Now's probably not a good time, though."

"Mind if I tag along?" Bob asks. "I've got an appointment to meet with Chaplain Peters later anyway."

Kepler stands up and grabs his hat. "Be glad for you to go with me. I really didn't want to do this alone, anyway."

\---

Bandits Baseball Field

Practice has been good. Aja has put a little more spin on his curveball. Q seems to be batting a little better, and Shinji is even a little more comfortable with hard throws heading his way. As the daylight begins to disappear, Bob calls it a day. The Bandits disperse and Bob sits with Ramiro on the bench, waiting while Ramiro takes off his equipment.

"Good practice," Bob says.

"Yeah. Aja's starting to get the hang of that curve," Ramiro says. "Everything okay, Coach? You seemed a little quiet out there today."

Bob nods. "Yeah. Been a tough week at work. Some of our guys got killed over in the 'Stan."

"Oh, man. I'm sorry to hear that," Ramiro says.

Bob watches as Ramiro closes his eyes. His lips move in a quiet prayer. Ramiro finishes quickly and crosses himself. He finishes taking off his shin guards and stands up to leave.

"How's your mom?" Bob asks.

"She's okay. Ms. Kuznieski called me and told me everything should be okay. We're back in our house, so that's good. Dad's still pretty worried, though," Ramiro says.

"You call me if I can do anything," Bob says.

"Will do, Coach." Ramiro puts his gear into his duffel bag and walks away. "Later."

\---

Dayton International Airport

Bob stands on the concrete apron outside gate C-3. He wears his service dress uniform, an almost unfamiliar uniform he really hasn't worn much since graduating from basic training. Usually he hates wearing the thing. It's hot, gathers blotches of dust like a magnet, and the shoes are uncomfortable. He is much more comfortable wearing his camouflaged Airman Battle Uniform. They suit him better, too. Service dress is usually reserved for the airmen that fly desks, not the men like him who carry sidearms and go out on patrol. But today is different. Today Bob is proud to wear his service dress. Today he is welcoming home a brother.

Nearby, a hearse and a blue Air Force passenger van wait patiently.

The wait was short. Bob hears the jet before he sees it, before it turns into the alleyway between the two small terminals.

The engine noise increases as the pilot drives the plane up to the Jetway, guided in by the civilian workers. Once in place, the pilot kills the engines. He spots Bob from the cockpit and waves a kind of half salute.

Bob waits as the engines spin down to silence.

\---

Up in the plane, the captain speaks over the intercom, asking the passengers to remain seated until the official escort can depart the plane. This allows an airman, also dressed in blues, to be the first person out of the plane. When he gets onto the Jetway, instead of continuing into the terminal, he opens a door and climbs down the ladder. Once on the concrete, he straightens his own uniform, then turns and marches crisply, with precisely turned corners, to the airplane's cargo door. He does a smart about face and stands at attention facing away from the airplane.

The hearse and the Air Force van pull closer. Captain Peters, the chaplain, steps out of the hearse's passenger seat, clutching a Bible to his chest. He walks up to Bob.

"Sergeant Williams, I didn't know you'd be here to greet Master Sergeant Walters," Captain Peters said.

"I had to be here, sir," Bob says. "I knew him. Last time I saw him, I was trying to strike him out. He was a pretty good stick."

Nearby, Major Kepler and a group of airmen, also in dress blues, step out of the Air Force van. Kepler carries a folded American flag under his left arm. The men quickly form up in a column of twos and check their uniforms. Major Kepler brings them to attention, and then conducts his own inspection. Once satisfied, he orders, "Slow... march." The men begin making their way to the jet, their steps in slow, yet precise, order.

Bob and the chaplain come to attention when the procession moves past them.

Baggage handlers open the airplane's cargo door. One of the baggage handlers crawls into the hold.

As Kepler's detail approaches the aircraft, he calls a halt. He exchanges salutes with the official escort standing guard at the cargo door. The escort marches over to the side and stops in a position so he can monitor the next leg of his airman's journey.

Kepler orders his detail the last few steps up to the plane where the men stop, lined up on either side of the cargo door. At Kepler's command of "Center... face," they turn crisply and face each other.

Kepler steps between the columns and stops at the cargo door. He begins unfolding the flag he has been carrying and places it on the end of a dark blue casket the handlers have maneuvered toward the door. Kepler hands the flag to the airman closest to the cargo door and then grabs the handle at the end of the casket. As he slowly pulls the casket out of the plane, the two airmen closest to the cargo door unfold the flag and the other airmen take a hold on the casket side rails. Once the casket is all the way out of the plane, and in the loving hands of the airmen, Major Kepler releases his grip and steps back. He renders a slow hand salute and drops it just as slowly. He does an about-face and barks an order over his shoulder. The airmen face front, then on command they slowly follow Major Kepler as he leads them to the hearse. The official escort falls in behind the casket, bringing up the rear.

As the procession moves, all the ground workers stop what they are doing. Several take off their hats. Even the baggage handlers stop what they're doing to show their respect. One of them salutes. The bags can wait.

The captain and first officer of the plane climb down the ladder from the Jetway and come to attention. As if they were in the military, which they probably were at one time, if not still in the Reserves or National Guard, they come to attention and offer crisp salutes of their own.

The procession moves past Bob and Captain Peters. Peters snaps his own salute.

Bob hates the fact he can't salute, but he doesn't have an arm to salute with, so he just stands at rigid attention.

As the casket passes, Captain Peters drops his salute.

"We called him Sergeant Invincible," Bob says as the airmen begin pushing the coffin into the hearse. "I guess he wasn't so invincible after all."

"Some men... some leaders... can make us believe nothing can hurt them," Captain Peters says, "but in war, we quickly find out only God is invincible."

Once the Master Sergeant's body is in the hearse, the official escort gets in the passenger's seat. Kepler's detail marches to the van, then gets inside it.

"You need a ride?" Bob asks Captain Peters.

"I'm supposed to ride back with Major Kepler."

"I was thinking it would give us a minute to talk," Bob says.

"Of course," Captain Peters says.

Bob's truck is nearby, with a special ramp parking pass. He leads the Chaplain to it and they get in. Bob pulls in behind the hearse and they begin the ride back to the base where the ceremony is to begin.

They are both astounded to see the massive community turnout on the thirty minute trip to the base. Every overpass is crowded with local people paying their respects, and thousands of cars line the road. American flags wave from almost every hand.

Bob is quiet for the first half of the trip, listening to some of the chaplain's stories about his own time in the desert. It turns out they shared many of the same experiences: fear, distrust, loss of friends... During the last fifteen minutes of the ride, Bob begins sharing his own story with Chaplain Peters. Peters listens without offering advice or suggestions. Just listens. Bob realizes it is good therapy, and before they get to the ceremony, he has accepted the chaplain's offer to get together again. Bob knows he has a long way to go.

The ceremony for Master Sergeant Williams is moving. Most of the base community—thousands of people—attend to pay their respects. Bob drifts through it, his mind often wandering back to his own time in the 'Stan, remembering his last ball game there, and Master Sergeant Williams creaming the fastball Bob threw, letting the young Afghan teen make his first score in a baseball game.

\---

Root Beer Stand

The rustic Root Beer Stand is a throwback to the old days. A covered parking area allows patrons to drive into a stall and "car hops," some of them on roller skates, provide the service.

Julie and her daughter sit in their car, reviewing the menu. "Grilled cheese?" Julie asks.

"And root beer," Sarah says.

The car hop rolls up to the window. "Are you ready to order yet, ma'am?" she asks.

"I'm hungry, Mommy," Sarah says.

"Okay, Sarah," Julie says. She turns to the car hop. "May we have a hamburger, one grilled cheese, and two root beers, please?"

The car hop quickly writes down the order. "Yes, ma'am," she says and rolls away to place the order.

Julie looks at her phone, and then hits redial.

"I don't think he's coming, Mommy," Sarah says.

Julie listens. She finally kills the connection. "He's still not answering. I'm getting worried." She hesitates, and then takes a business card out of her purse. She dials her phone and waits.

"Major Kepler," comes the answer on the other end.

"Major, this is Julie Kuznieski."

\---

Security Forces Headquarters

Kepler puts down his sandwich.

Julie's voice is scratchy as it comes out of the desk phone speaker. "He was supposed to meet us, but he's not answering. Have you heard from him?"

Kepler hits a few keys on his computer. A map flashes up on his screen. Kepler zooms in on a red, flashing circle.

He turns to the phone. "I think I know where he is. I'll see what's going on. Thanks for letting me know."

"Ask him to call me, please," Julie asks.

"I will," Kepler says. He stabs at the speaker key on the phone, shutting it off, and then grabs his sandwich and his hat on his way out.

\---

McGuffy's Bar

McGuffy's is a biker bar, a favorite of the locals and many off-duty cops. Bob wears civilian clothes, sitting at a table near the muted, big-screen TV. Only a few other people are in the bar.

A half-empty beer and a full shot glass are on the table in front of him.

Major Kepler walks in from outside. He takes off his sunglasses and scans the bar. He spots Bob sitting alone and walks over.

Kepler pulls out a chair and sits down. "When you asked for the day off, I didn't know you'd be going on a bender."

"Just celebrating Johnny's birthday. He would've been twenty eight today," Bob says.

"You guys were pretty close?" Kepler asks.

"He was as close to a brother as a man could have. I met Johnny when we were both twelve. Foster home with ten other kids. But we hit it off right away. We both loved baseball. We had plans, had a pact. We were going to play in the majors."

"He was good?"

"Best catcher ever," Bob says as he takes a drink of his beer. He puts it back down, pauses, then slams his fist onto the table. "It should've been me!"

"It wasn't your time, Bob," Kepler says.

"You don't understand. It was all my idea. I talked Johnny into joining the Air Force with me. A way for us to escape that little dump of a town. If I hadn't..." a tear rolls down Bob's face. "It should've been me."

Bob tosses the shot back, chases it with beer. He looks down at his missing arm. "I'd have been better off."

"That's nonsense," Kepler says. "That's the booze talking. I think there's a reason you're here. You don't see it, but you have a gift."

"That's what everyone used to say," Bob says. He twists around and points his injured limb at Kepler. "Those damned Afghans took my gift."

Kepler shakes his head. "Not that. That was a physical gift, but you have another gift—I see it when you're with your team."

"Team?" Bob says. "Just a bunch of kids trying to play baseball."

"You know there's more to it than that. Those are kids trying to live their dreams, and you're helping them do that." Major Kepler leans in close to Bob. "Johnny had a dream, too. You can't help him. But those guys on your team, they look up to you... depend on you."

"Speaking of which..." Bob checks his watch. "Game tonight. Guess I better get going."

"I'm not going to let the team see you like this, "Kepler says. "I'm taking you home."

Bob starts to finish his beer, but puts it back down. "Maybe you could drop me off at the Chaplain's office?"

\--

Rangers Baseball Field

The Bandits stand near their dugout, watching as the Rangers come in from their warm up.

The umpire dusts off the plate.

"Where's Coach?" Shinji asks.

"Ain't no one heard from him?" JJ asks. "We can't play without him."

"We can if we have to," Ramiro says.

The umpire strolls over. "You guys ready?"

"Just waitin' on our coach," JJ says.

The umpire checks his watch. "We gotta get started."

"Coach has our gear," Ramiro says.

"We can't forfeit," JJ says.

The umpire waves for one of the Rangers to come over. "The Rangers are good guys. I bet I can get them to share. Hang on." He heads back, meeting the Rangers' coach near home plate.

"JJ, you're up. Shinji, on deck," Ramiro says.

"Got no bat," JJ says. "I hope Coach is okay. It's not like him to not show."

"He's under a lot of stress," Aja says. "I see it in his eyes. I've seen it before. Many times."

"Coach'll be all right," Ramiro says. "Let's just go win one for him."

One of the Rangers brings over a load of bats and a couple of helmets. "Just don't break any of 'em. Bring 'em back over after your first three batters strike out," he says with a wide grin.

Ramiro shakes his hand. "Thanks, and we will... bring them back, that is—no intentions of striking out."

The Ranger player heads back to his bench. He shouts back over his shoulder. "Good luck!"

\---

Security Forces Headquarters

Airman Jones steps inside the break room.

Both rent-a-cops are in their usual place, sitting at the table, drinking coffee.

Airman Jones steps smartly up to the tote board and marks a final W for the last game. He turns to face the rent-a-cops. "They're in the playoffs. Now what do you think?"

Paul takes a swig of his coffee, looks at the airman. "Luck."

\---

Bandits Baseball Field

The Bandits, still without a coach, practice fielding.

Bob leans against his car, parked down the street where the Bandits won't notice him. He holds a bottle in a brown paper bag, watching the Bandits practice. Aja is pitching against Shinji. Shinji swings, missing a fastball.

A shadow crosses over Bob, and Aja's father steps up beside him.

"It can't be easy to coach from here," Kourash says. He, too, leans against the car. They watch silently as Aja fires another fastball right across the plate. Shinji just watches it go by.

"He throws well?" Kourash asks.

Bob looks sideways at Kourash, then back at Aja. "Possibly the best I've ever seen... next to me, anyway... Well, before."

"You threw?" Kourash asks.

"Yeah, I was headed for the Major League." Bob turns back to Kourash. "But that was before... before your brothers attacked me."

Kourash pulls off his sunglasses revealing a scar where his left eye used to be. "Not my brothers." Kourash points at the field, at Aja. "Do you wonder why he throws so well?"

Bob shrugs.

"As a boy, he loved to throw rocks," Kourash says. "He could knock down a bird if it was close."

"No one could do that," Bob says.

"Aja could. I've seen him do it many times," Kourash says. "When he got older, his targets changed."

"Changed? Changed to what?" Bob asks.

"Taliban soldiers," Kourash says.

"Taliban?" Bob says, disbelieving. "If that's true, he's lucky to be alive."

"He hates the Taliban," Kourash says. "Those animals killed his mother."

Bob starts to take a drink. Stops. Looks at Kourash.

Kourash nods. "I joined with the Americans when you came the first time. The Taliban found out. They killed my wife, almost killed me."

"Is that when you came to America?" Bob asks.

"No. Not right away. I continued to help the Americans, but it became too dangerous for my children. The soldiers helped us come here."

Over on the field, Aja fires another bullet. Shinji gets a piece of it but fouls toward first base.

"I'm glad we got out," Kourash says. "These Taliban, they are not my brothers. They are nothing more than savages. They kill for power."

"They say they represent Islam," Bob says.

Kourash shakes his head. "Nothing more than an excuse. They have no respect for life. It's always for power, only about power."

"Do you think we will ever beat them? The Taliban?" Bob asks.

Kourash smiles. "Yes. The Taliban are evil, and we—you and I and all the people who hate and despise evil—we are united." Kourash points at the ball field. "Just like the Bandits."

\---

Dayton Dragons Baseball Field

JJ leads the team out of the tunnel near the Dragons' dugout and onto the field. The Bandits look up in awe at the size of the field... the stands... the fans.

The stadium is almost full for the playoffs, only a few empty seats.

As they gather on the field outside the third base line, Ramiro finally breaks the trance. "Let's get in the dugout. Get ready for a ball game."

"Still no Coach, Ramiro?" JJ asks.

"Not yet. We have to play ball either way, so let's get ready," Ramiro says.

Ramiro follows the last player into the dugout. "We're visitors. Q, you're up first."

Q grabs a helmet and bat. He starts out of the dugout, but stops suddenly at the door and backs up. "Hey, Coach," he says as he stands to the side to let Bob in.

The team shouts in unison, "Coach!"

Q starts out the door but Bob stops him. "Hold up a minute, Q." Bob turns to the team. "Guys, I want to apologize for being a jerk the last couple of days. I've been wallowing in my own pity. It won't happen again."

"It's cool, Coach," Q says. "We understand where you comin' from."

"Yeah, Coach," JJ says. "Good to have you back."

"Back for good. I promise," Bob says. "Now, let's get out there and win this ball game. Go on, Q."

Bob sits down on the bench beside Aja. "I talked to your dad yesterday. He helped me get my head back on straight. I just want you to tell him... tell him thanks."

"I will," Aja says.

Bob pats Aja on the leg, stands up and turns to the team. "All right, let's play some baseball."

Bob steps onto the grass outside the dugout and looks toward home plate. "Come on, Q. Keep your eye on the ball."

"Bob! Bob!" someone shouts from above the dugout in the grandstands.

Bob scans the crowd. It isn't tough to spot Julie and Sarah standing right above the dugout.

Bob trots to the wall near them and reaches up. "Julie, I'm glad you came."

"Wouldn't miss it," Julie says. She reaches down and takes his hand. "Are you okay?"

"Well..." Bob says. "I'm better. I took your advice, called for some help. Glad I did."

"Me, too," she says.

"Hey, you and Sarah want to join us in the dugout?"

"Could we?" Sarah asks.

Bob hollers at one of the ushers nearby and waves him over.

"Can you bring these two ladies to the dugout? They're the Bandits' special guests."

The usher leads Julie and Sarah toward the tunnel, and Bob turns back to the game as he waits on them to arrive.

Q is still at bat, swinging against two strikes. He connects, sending a line drive between shortstop and third. He races the throw and beats the ball to first by a hair.

The Bandits' dugout erupts in a cheer, and the people in the stands are on their feet, applauding the play from both teams.

Q turns and trots back to the bag, high-fiving Ramiro, who is coaching first.

Julie and Sarah arrive at the tunnel, escorted by the usher. Bob trots over to them.

"Wow," Julie says. "What did we miss?"

"Just some spectacular hitting," Bob says. "Come with me." He leads them to the dugout.

"Hang out here for a bit," Bob says. "I have to go coach third."

The girls watch as JJ steps up to the plate.

JJ swings at the first pitch and connects solidly. The players on both teams watch as the ball flies over the fence in right field....JJ's first homer of the season.

Bob slaps both Q and JJ on the butt as they trot past third and head for home.

The entire Bandits team awaits Q at home plate. They lift him onto their shoulders and carry him back to the dugout.

The rest of the game goes much the same way. Aja repeatedly throws out batters, only suffering a few hits. Unfortunately, in the third inning, one of the hits is a homer that drives in an opponent already on base. The score at that point is four to two in favor of the Bandits.

In the fifth, Ramiro also connects with a homer, driving Shinji in from second.

The scoreboard ripples toward the final inning, Bandits leading, seven to two.

As Aja strikes out the final batter, the team erupts in cheers, rushing to gather at the pitcher's mound. They share high fives and chest bumps all around before heading back to the dugout.

As they gather their equipment, Bob starts handing out tickets for the other semi-final game, scheduled for the next day. "Great game, guys. Our old friends, the Badgers, are playing tomorrow. We play the winner for the championship day after tomorrow, so I want you to watch tomorrow's game closely."

Bob hands Aja a ticket. "Especially you, watch their batters. See what they like, what they don't." He hands Aja another ticket. "In case your dad wants to come."

\---

Small Arms Range Complex

Bob runs the target out to the twenty-five-yard distance.

He raises the pistol, both eyes open. Aims. Exhales.

Bang...bang...bang...

Smoke from the pistol drifts upward.

Bang...bang...bang...

Bob shifts his feet.

Bang...bang...bang...

He ejects the clip, braces the pistol against the side of the range head, and quickly loads it. He fires the second clip in quick succession.

Bang...bang...bang...... bang...bang...bang...

He stops, places the pistol on the counter and hits the button to bring the target close. It zips toward him. Getting closer... closer. Stops.

A smile creeps across his face. Holes, all within the second ring, mark the target.

\--

Dayton Dragons Baseball Field

The Bandits sit behind the Dragons' dugout, two rows back, watching the semi-final game between the Badgers and the Belmont Bees. They'll be facing the winner tomorrow in the championship.

The Bandits are wearing their jerseys, eating popcorn and hotdogs and drinking sodas. While enjoying the game, they're also intently watching both teams, looking for weaknesses they might be able to take advantage of in the final game.

The game is good, but it quickly becomes obvious the Badgers will be the team to beat. In the top of the first inning, the Bandits watch as the Badgers makes a double play, second and first, ending the Bees' chance for an early run.

When the Badgers are up to hit, they're a slugging machine. The first Badger pops a short fly ball over the shortstop for a single.

The second batter gets a double, putting runners on second and third.

The next Badger at bat is a familiar face—Smith steps up into the batter's box.

"There's our friend, the jerk," Ramiro says.

"Just watch him," Bob says. "Especially you, Aja."

Smith steps into the first pitch. He swings hard and launches the ball out over the right field fence for a home run.

"That was a fastball," Bob says to Aja. "If you want him to strike on a fastball, it'll have to be a real smoker."

Aja nods. "I'll bring the smoke, Coach."

Smith trots the bases, waving at the crowd like a conceited celebrity.

As Smith rounds third, he spots the Bandits in their jerseys behind the Dragons' dugout. He slows, points at Ramiro, and yells, "Hey, Mescan! Remember me? I'll run over your ass again tomorrow. And bring that raghead fella, too. I wanna hit a few homers offa him."

Ramiro stands and flips Smith the bird.

"Chill, Ramiro," Bob says, pulling Ramiro down into his seat. "Ignore that jerk. We'll take these guys easy this time. Just don't let him get into your head."

The rest of the game goes as expected, and the Badgers take it to the Bees. The final showdown will be between the Bandits and their rivals, the Badgers.

\---

Dayton Dragons Baseball Field

The Bandits come through the tunnel again, into a totally packed stadium. The Dragons' baseball field is even more crowded than when they played two days earlier.

Aja leads the way onto the field. He stops as he trots toward the dugout, and checks out the stands. "There's not an empty seat!"

Shinji turns and looks. He keeps turning and turning, taking it all in.

Aja shoves Shinji toward the dugout, almost knocking him down.

Major Kepler and Julie come out of the tunnel, carrying a large cardboard box between them. They bring it down into the dugout and put it on the bench.

Kepler opens the box and digs down into it. He pulls out a new blue baseball jersey. He unfolds the Jersey and reads the name aloud. "Shinji." He tosses the jersey to Shinji.

Shinji holds the shirt up and smiles.

"We have new jerseys for everyone," Kepler says. "As of today, this is America's team."

Shinji turns the jersey around for everyone to see. Where it previously said "Japan," it now says "U.S.A" in red, white, and blue letters. A U.S. flag adorns the right sleeve.

"Where's mine?" Q asks.

The team crowds Major Kepler and his box of jerseys As Shinji pulls on his brand new jersey. Kepler starts tossing shirts to the rest of the team. "Pauli... JJ... Mayday...."

The team changes in the dugout, pulling on their fresh jerseys.

Julie, standing outside the dugout, begins taking pictures of the team as they change and model their new shirts.

Bob comes in, already wearing his new baseball jersey. "You guys look awesome."

One of the Badgers, standing near third base while his team is practicing, watches them intently. Listening....

"Ramiro..." Kepler holds up Ramiro's new uniform. "Where's Ramiro?"

"No one's seen him," JJ says.

Pauli stands up, holding his cell. "He called me this morning. Wanted me to tell you they're leaving."

"What...?" Bob asks.

"He said to tell you he's sorry," Pauli says. "His dad's real worried they're gonna' be kicked out of the country."

Julie steps into the dugout.

"They aren't getting deported," Bob says.

"We wanted to surprise him," Julie says. "I have their naturalization papers with me. They've been approved."

"But Ramiro don't know that," Pauli says. "His dad sure don't know it, either."

"Call him, JJ," Bob says.

"He said not to bother," Pauli says. "He said he won't answer. He said he was going to help his mom pack up the apartment and they were heading out this afternoon."

Bob turns to Major Kepler. "We have to get to him, let him know."

"I have a squad car," Kepler says.

"Julie, we can't let him leave. He has to know they approved his citizenship. You have to go get him and tell him. Try and bring him back here..." Bob says. "We need him."

Julie turns and grabs Kepler's arm and starts pulling him toward the dugout entrance. "What are we waiting for?" They rush out of the dugout and head into the tunnel.

Bob looks over his bench, wondering what to do. He shakes his head. "Shinji, you're catching."

Shinji's jaw drops. "Me?"

Bob continues the assignments. "Mayday, take right field."

Shinji still can't believe it. "But, Coach... I can't catch."

"Sure you can," Bob says. "Get the catchers' gear on and get out there, let Aja fire a few fastballs at you."

"Coach," Shinji says, "I don't like frickin' fastballs."

The rest of the team laughs and heads out onto the field as the Badgers come in from their warmup.

Shinji buckles the shin guards, then pulls on the chest protector and tightens it. He trots out of the dugout and stops just short of home plate. He looks down at the plate, then up at the pitcher's mound.

Aja is just arriving on the mound. He palms a baseball and steps on the rubber, waiting.

Shinji exhales deeply, and then steps in behind the plate and squats down, pulling down his face guard. He pounds his fist into his glove, fidgeting. Waiting for the inevitable. He finally settles into position and concentrates on his pitcher.

Aja goes through his strange windup and fires a fastball.

Shinji can barely see the deadly missile through the face mask, but he knows the baseball is coming straight at him. He sees it at the very last split second and dodges out of the way, missing the ball completely. The ball flies past him and slams into the backstop.

The umpire, standing off to the side, leaning against the backstop, jumps when the ball hits and rattles the chain link. He looks over at the Bandits' catcher. "You better catch them balls, son. I don't want to be dodging them all afternoon."

Shinji stands up and trots over to retrieve the baseball. "I'll try, Ump."

The umpire watches Aja throw a few more. Shinji misses most of them, but finally snags one even as he tries to dodge out of the way. The umpire finally steps toward the plate and pulls on his face mask. "Let's play ball!"

Smith steps up to the plate as the Badgers' first hitter. He looks down at Shinji. "Whoa, where's the Mescan? I was lookin' forward to climbing all over his ass again. I guess he chickened out. Y'all done replaced him with a chink."

"I'm Japanese," Shinji says. "You don't even know how to insult people the right way, do you, Redneck?"

Smith laughs. "Okay, Mr. Japanese. Some advice, little fella: just stay out of my way when I come for home. You're so little I might break you somethin' bad."

Smith steps into the batter's box and taps the bat on the plate, facing Aja. "Good to see you again, raghead. Throw me one of them speedballs. I wanna hit one out of here."

\---

Julie and Major Kepler run up to an Air Force police car parked just outside the front entrance to the Dragons' stadium. They climb in and Major Kepler fires up the engine, drops the car into gear, and squeals away. He hits the lights. "Seat belt," Kepler says to Julie.

Julie pulls the strap on as the car banks hard to the right, pulling up onto Monument Street. The squad car races through the city, slowing for red lights before shooting through when Kepler sees the traffic is clear.

The car turns onto a side street and stops in front of Ramiro's apartment building. Julie and Major Kepler jump out. Julie runs toward Ramiro's apartment with Kepler close behind.

\---

Inside Ramiro's apartment, Ramiro's mother is in one of the bedrooms. She's quickly packing a suitcase with her daughter's clothes when she sees the police car through a window. "Madre de Dios! Ramiro!" she shouts.

She rushes out of the bedroom into the short hallway that leads to the front room.

Ramiro meets her in the living room. "What's wrong?" he asks.

She points to the front. "Police! We have to leave out the back. Get your sister. Hurry!"

Ramiro steps to the edge of the front door and pulls the curtain back an inch or so. He peeks out. "Mom, no. It's Ms. Kuznieski. She's a friend." He opens the door.

Julie stops outside. "Ramiro, thank God we caught you. JJ said you were leaving."

"My father said we have to go," Ramiro says. "I'm sorry." He starts to shut the door.

"No. Stop," Julie says. "You don't have to leave." She holds out a large envelope. "Your citizenship has been approved. I've got the papers."

Ramiro slowly pulls the door back open. He stares at the envelope. "Honest?"

"Your whole family," Julie tells him. "You're going to be Americans."

Ramiro puts his hand to his mouth.

Ramiro's mother, holding her young daughter tight to her side, slowly approaches. "We're going to be Americans?"

Julie nods.

Ramiro opens the door and Julie hands him the envelope.

Julie steps inside and hugs Ramiro, then his mother.

Kepler holds the door and reaches out to shake Ramiro's hand. "Congratulations, Ramiro. But right now your team needs you."

Ramiro turns quickly and disappears into the hallway, then comes rushing back out, pulling on his jersey. "Let's go," he says. Ramiro pauses and looks over at his mom.

Julie pushes Ramiro out the door. "Go! I'll bring your family."

Ramiro hugs his mom and sister. "Bring Dad....," Ramiro tells his mother. "We're going to be Americans!"

\---

Dayton Dragons Baseball Field

The scoreboard shows the Bandits losing three to one.

The Bandits are in the field, with one runner on first. Aja is on the mound, preparing to pitch. He winds up and fires a smoking fast strike.

The Badgers' batter swings, but misses.

Shinji doesn't move his glove and the ball slams into his mitt. "Ow!" Shinji jumps up and throws off his mitt. He vigorously rubs his catching hand. He finally pulls the mitt back on and throws the ball back to Aja. "I don't know how Ramiro frickin' does this."

Just then, Ramiro and the Major rush out of the tunnel. Bob sees them. He rushes out of the dugout and shouts at the umpire, "Time!"

The umpire raises his hands. "Time out!"

Shinji sees Ramiro. "Thank God." He jogs over to the dugout. "Glad you're here, Ramiro," Shinji says. "My hand is frickin' killing me."

Bob slaps Ramiro on the back. "Just in time, Ramiro."

Shinji starts quickly peeling off the catcher's equipment, handing the gear to Ramiro.

Ramiro sits on the bench and just as quickly begins putting the gear on. "Hey Coach, we got our papers. We're going to be Americans."

Bob's smile can barely match Ramiro's. "Yeah, I heard. That's great. But I need a catcher."

Ramiro straps on his catcher's gear as quickly as he can.

"Hey, Ramiro," Kepler says. "I have a jersey for you."

Kepler holds up Ramiro's new jersey, turns it around to show him the "U.S.A." on the back.

Ramiro smiles, but then shakes his head. "Thanks, Major, but not yet. I haven't been sworn in."

Back out on the field, Smith is walking out toward the umpire, followed by three of his players, including the one who was listening in on the Bandits during their warm-up.

"Come on, Ump," Smith says. "What's the hold up?"

Bob, Ramiro, and Shinji come out of their dugout. Shinji heads for right field, waving for Mayday to come in.

Ramiro heads for home plate.

Smith holds his hands up, then points at Ramiro. "Whoa! Hold on, Ump. He can't play."

"Just why not?" the umpire asks.

"He's not an American," Smith says. "We heard them say he's being deported. Illegals can't play. That's league rules."

Julie steps out of the tunnel and notices the activity at home plate. She can hear Smith ranting, sees him pointing at Ramiro.

"That true?" the umpire asks Bob. "This young man an illegal alien?"

"No, he's not, Ump. He just got approval for naturalization," Bob says.

"Approval don't make him no American," Smith says. "I know that much. He can't play."

Julie joins the huddle near home plate. "He just needs to be sworn in. We can't get that done until Monday."

"Julie?" asks the ump from behind his mask. "You have something to do with this?"

Julie cocks her eye at the umpire.

"Why don't we swear him in right now?" the umpire asks.

"Can't. You need a judge to do that!" Smith says.

The umpire pulls off his face mask, smiling.

"Judge Watson? I didn't realize..."

"Judge. Umpire. Same thing," the umpire—Judge Watson—says. "I just love baseball." He addresses Ramiro. "You ready to be an American, Catch?"

Ramiro nods vigorously. "Absolutely, sir."

Judge Watson turns to Julie. "You have the papers?"

Julie nods. "For the whole family." She opens the envelope and shares the papers with Judge Watson.

Judge Watson reviews the paperwork carefully. "Is the rest of the family here?"

"In the stands," Julie says. "I can get them."

"Please," Judge Watson says, and then turns to Ramiro. "I bet they'll want to be sworn in together."

"Yes, sir. That would be perfect." Ramiro nods again.

Julie heads for the tunnel at a trot.

"I don't like this," Smith says. "We're supposed to be playing baseball."

"Suck it up, Coach," Watson says. "I'm going to do my day job for a few minutes."

Smith throws his hands in the air and spins around, heading back to the Badgers' dugout.

One of the Dragons' staff members stands nearby, holding a microphone and wearing the Dragons' team colors. Judge Watson waves at him and he comes over.

"That thing on?" Judge Watson asks.

The man flips a switch on the microphone, and then hands it to Judge Watson.

Judge Watson turns to address the crowd, speaks into the microphone. "Ladies and gentlemen, we're going to take a little break and swear in a new American family. Mr. Ramiro, the Bandits' catcher, and his family have just been approved for citizenship."

The crowd roars their approval.

Several members of the Dragons' staff bring out a pair of microphone stands and set them up near home plate, just as a photographer starts snapping photos.

Julie steps out of the tunnel with Ramiro's mother, father, and little sister in tow. She guides them toward home plate.

"All we need is a flag," Judge Watson says, his back to the outfield.

All at once, the video board near center field changes its picture, displaying a huge, electronic American flag.

Ramiro taps the judge on the shoulder and points at the display. "I'd say we have a flag."

Julie situates Ramiro and his family in front of home plate, facing Judge Watson and the crowd.

"Raise your right hands..." Judge Watson says.

Ramiro and his family stand close to each other, raising their hands.

"And repeat after me." Judge Watson begins the oath. "I hereby declare, on oath, that I absolutely and entirely renounce..."

The judge pauses while the Sanchezes repeat his words.

Across the stadium, people begin standing up, one by one.

Judge Watson continues, "and abjure all allegiance and fidelity to any foreign prince, potentate, state or sovereignty..."

Again, the Sanchezes repeat after the judge.

The Bandits have all gathered around Ramiro and his family. The Badgers have even begun to come out of their dugout.

"... of whom or which I have heretofore been a subject or citizen..."

The Badgers are all out of their dugout now, standing along the first base line.

"... that I will support and defend the Constitution and laws of the United States of America..."

In the stands, a small boy eating a hotdog puts his hand over his heart.

"... against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same..."

Almost as if planned for this event, an Air Force Fighter, an F-16 Fighting Falcon from the nearby base, flies low over the stadium, jet engines briefly drowning out the entire ceremony.

"... that I will perform noncombatant service in the armed forces of the United States when required by the law ..."

In the stands, an older Hispanic man has his hat over his heart, a tear forming in his eye.

"... that I will bear arms on behalf of the United States when required by the law ..."

By this time the entire stadium is silent as the Judge's and Sanchezes' words echo across the field. Americans from across the spectrum of economic, social, racial, religious, and political spectra have put aside all thoughts except for the pride in their own heritage. They are all as one, focused on welcoming four new Americans to the fold.

Judge Watson completes the oath, waiting between segments for the Sanchezes to repeat it back to him. "... that I will perform work of national importance under civilian direction when required by the law; and that I take this obligation freely without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion; so help me God."

"So help me God," Ramiro and his family reply in unison.

Across the stadium, the crowd erupts in applause.

Judge Watson shakes each new American's hand, and then turns back to the crowd. He speaks into the microphone. "There's one more step to becoming an American. Please join me as these new citizens recite the Pledge of Allegiance."

The Bandits along third base line and the Badgers along first base all place their hats over their hearts. They turn to face the electronic flag waving on the scoreboard.

The Sanchezes turn and face the flag. Ramiro's jersey seems out of place, with "Mexico" emblazoned across his back. They begin, "I pledge allegiance..."

Throughout the ball field everyone joins in.

Two little girls in matching outfits recite in unison, "... to the flag, of the United States of America..."

The Dayton Dragons' mascot, Heater, and his sidekick, Gem, have their huge fake paws over their hearts. "... and to the republic, for which it stands... "

Mr. Sanchez wipes his eye, while Mrs. Sanchez lets the tears flow down both cheeks. "... one nation under God... "

And the crowd gets louder and louder as they conclude the pledge: "... indivisible, with liberty and justice for all."

Once again, the crowd erupts in applause.

Simulated fireworks flash and explode on the electronic scoreboard.

Judge Watson steps back, turns to the crowd, and speaks into the microphone, "Please join me in welcoming Mr. and Mrs. Ramiro Sanchez; Ramiro Junior; and Juanita. Americans!"

The entire stadium is on their feet, a billowing thunder of applause and shouts welcoming the Sanchezes to their new country.

The Sanchezes fidget, uncomfortable with the attention, but stand proud as they wave to their fellow Americans.

The applause dies down, and Judge Watson speaks once again. "Thanks to all of you for helping welcome these new Americans. Now, why don't we play some baseball?"

The crowd shouts approval once again as Julie leads the Sanchez family off the field.

Ramiro grabs his glove and face mask and heads for the plate. He slows, turns and runs back into the dugout. When he comes back out, he's buttoning up his new jersey – "U.S.A." in bold letters across his back. He pulls his mask on when he gets to the plate. "Thanks very much, Ump."

"My pleasure, Ramiro," Judge Watson says.

As the ball game gets back underway, it's a hard-fought battle. Aja continues to throw fastballs, with a few curves mixed in. His fastballs blaze, going right past most of the Badgers' hitters.

The Bandits' offense is good, too. Ramiro hits almost every time at bat.

But the Badgers prove to be a tough opponent. As the scoreboard marches forward into the bottom of the ninth, the Bandits hold a slight lead: Bandits four, Badgers three. The Badgers have one out.

Aja throws a curve, but it doesn't fool the Badgers' batter. He makes contact and punches a line drive toward left field. Q runs hard to try and catch it. He makes a diving catch. Out!

Bob can sense the impending win. He jumps up and down in front of the dugout. "Way to go, Q!" he shouts. He turns his attention to the rest of the team. "One more out... we just need one more out!"

Smith steps up to the batter's box. He looks down at Ramiro. "You may be an American, but you're still a Mescan."

Ramiro signals for a fastball. "Yeah. But I'm an American Mexican."

Smith turns his attention to the batter. "Throw one of them fastballs, Raghead."

Aja stares down Smith. Waiting.

Ramiro nods in agreement and holds two fingers down. Fastball it is.

Aja winds up and launches. He puts all his energy and leverage into the pitch and the ball smokes toward Ramiro's glove.

The ball screams toward Smith. He swings hard, but his timing is off. He gets nothing.

Ramiro stands to throw the ball back to Aja. He smiles at Smith before returning to his stance. "And that guy... He's an American Afghan. And he just threw smoke right past your ass."

Smith steps back out of the box, gripping the bat hard. He stares out at Aja. "Bring me another one of them fastballs, raghead."

Smith steps back into the box.

Aja stands on the mound, holding the ball and glaring at Smith. He takes the signal from Ramiro. Another fastball. Aja nods, then moves quickly into his windup and launches.

Smith waits half a beat longer this time before he swings. He connects with Aja's pitch and hits a line drive right back at Aja.

Aja tries to catch the ball, but it comes too quickly and he misses. The ball hits him hard in the right shoulder, right in his shoulder joint. The force of the impact spins Aja around and he falls down, writhing on the ground.

The Bandits in the infield all rush to their injured teammate.

Smith takes advantage of the Bandits' concern for their pitcher. He races for first and arrives standing up because there's no one there. There's no one on second, either, and the base coach urges him on. Smith keeps running.

Bob runs out onto the sidelines, yelling, "Santini, get the ball! Get the ball!"

Santini grabs the ball lying near the pitcher's mound. He steps back and puts himself between the runner and third.

Smith turns the corner at second, but spots Santini. He backs up and steps on the base.

"Time!" Bob yells.

The base umpire throws his hands up. "Time out!"

Bob and Major Kepler rush onto the field.

When they get to him, Aja is sitting up, holding his shoulder. He's surrounded by the infield team.

Bob squats down. "Are you all right?"

"I think so," Aja says as they help him to his feet. He tries to raise his right arm. When it reaches shoulder height he grimaces in pain.

"That's not good," Bob says.

Aja tries to raise his arm again, but there's still too much pain.

Bob turns to JJ. "JJ, you better get ready to pitch."

"I don't think so," Ramiro says as he tosses the ball to Bob. "You're up, Coach."

Bob grabs the ball. He looks around at the other Bandits. He shakes his head. "I'm not ready."

"Yeah, you are," Ramiro says. "I know you are."

"Ramiro," Bob says, "I might be able to throw, but I can't field."

"You won't need to," Ramiro tells him. "Trust me." Ramiro waves for the others to take their positions as he turns and heads back to home plate.

Kepler helps Aja off the field, leaving Bob standing alone on the pitcher's mound.

JJ shouts encouragement when he gets back to first. "You got it, Coach. Ramiro told us. Let's win this one."

Ramiro turns to Judge Watson. "Ump, need a couple of practice throws."

"Go ahead," Watson says. He waves the new batter back out of the box.

"Hold on!" Smith yells from second. "He can't play. He only has one arm."

Judge Watson steps toward the mound, waving for Smith to join him.

Smith walks over from second.

Smith, Bob, and Judge Watson meet at the mound. "No rules against him pitching," Judge Watson says. "He wants to risk it, it's his call."

"It just ain't right," Smith says. "This is baseball."

Bob looks Smith in the eye. "You ever heard of Jim Abbott?"

Smith stares back blankly.

"Thought so," Bob says. "Abbott played in the Majors for ten years in the nineties. Only had one hand. He was a pitcher. How about Hugh Daily? He pitched back in the early days of the League. Only had one hand."

Judge Watson smiles as Smith stands dumbfounded.

"Unlike some people," Bob says. "This game doesn't discriminate."

Smith stares at the two men blankly, then just shrugs and turns to head back to second. "Whatever, loser."

Bob and Judge Watson watch as Smith walks back to second base, mumbling and kicking the grass.

Watson turns to Bob and speaks quietly. "Well said." He points back at Ramiro standing at home plate. "This has been an interesting game, and you have a heck of a team, but you gotta know I won't give you any slack on the calls."

"No, sir," Bob says. "I don't want any. Just call 'em like you see 'em. That's all I need," Bob says.

"You got it," Judge Watson says. He turns and takes a wide berth going back to home plate.

Bob waves at Ramiro. Ramiro squats down and puts his glove behind the plate.

Bob digs his foot into the rubber, looks hard at Ramiro. He winds up awkwardly and throws.

The ball goes wide, but Ramiro snags it. "Take it easy, Coach. Just bring it over the plate." Ramiro tosses it easily back to Bob.

Bob catches it in his bare hand. He takes a few breaths before he winds up again. He throws again. The pitch isn't a smoker, but it's accurate.

Ramiro doesn't have to move his glove as the ball lands in its center. "That's it, Coach. You got it," Ramiro says as he stands to throw it back to Bob. "Now, put some heat on this one."

Bob takes another couple of deep breaths. He goes slowly into his windup, accelerating as he comes out of it. Not a bullet, but fast. And still accurate.

JJ shouts from first, "All right, Coach. Way to throw."

Judge Watson steps in behind Ramiro and raises his hands. "All right. Let's play ball."

Ramiro shouts at Bob as he throws the ball back to him. "Okay, Coach. We just need one more out. You can do this."

Smith, the Badgers' tying run, takes a long lead off of second. Dettmer, their potential winning run, steps into the batter's box.

Smith starts harassing Bob. "Wanna see me steal third, single-wing?" Smith takes another long step toward third.

Throwing left handed, Bob can't see Smith well. Bob glances back over his shoulder, and then turns his attention to home plate.

It's clear Bob isn't going to take the bait, so Smith hollers at his batter. "Clobber it, Dettmer. Bring me in. This game is over!"

Bob winds up slowly, builds energy, then launches a fastball. It goes wide outside but Ramiro has no problem grabbing it.

"Ball one."

Smith saunters back toward second.

"That's okay, Coach," Ramiro calls to Bob as he throws the ball back. "Just bring it in."

Bob catches the ball and steps back onto the rubber. He takes several long breaths.

Smith takes another long lead and continues to taunt Bob. "You got no speed on that ball, single-wing. Just lob it in there and let Dettmer cream it."

Bob eyes the batter, starts into his windup, and launches another fastball.

Dettmer swings... he gets nothing.

"Strike one!"

"Way to throw 'em, Coach," Pauli shouts from second.

"Nice one, Coach," Josh says from third.

Ramiro stands and tosses the ball back to Bob. "You got it now, Coach. Keep 'em coming."

Smith kicks the dirt as he walks back to second. He yells back at his batter. "Don't let this one-armed clown embarrass you, Dettmer. Hit the damn thing."

Bob toes the rubber, a smile crossing his face for the first time since he started started pitching this game. His confidence is climbing. He exhales... winds up... throws.

Dettmer swings. He gets a piece of it, launching the ball up and over the second baseman's head into shallow center. Dettmer races for first.

Saunders, in center field, runs up on the ball. He grabs it off the ground just as Smith rounds third, headed for home.

Smith yells loudly as he picks up speed down the straightaway for home plate. "Out of the way, Mescan!"

Saunders throws hard. He's dead on as the ball takes one short bounce right into Ramiro's glove.

Ramiro snags it and has just enough time to step between the runner and home plate. He squats slightly, leans forward, and faces Smith head on.

Smith comes hard and fast. He jumps to slide, feet first.

Ramiro leans farther down for the tag.

Smith digs his feet in and comes back up, a freight train headed right for Ramiro. He lunges at the catcher.

But this is a tactic Ramiro has seen before, and this time he's ready. He lunges forward and up just as Smith gets to him. They collide in a mass of muscle and bone.

Even though Smith has the momentum, Ramiro still has the edge. He uses the mass and strength he's gained hauling bundles of shingles up onto the roofs of houses to overpower the smaller Smith. Ramiro gets under Smith and shoves up and to the side in a block that would make an NFL lineman jealous.

Smith launches into the air, turning over in mid-flight. He crashes to the side and rolls in the dirt, finally coming to a stop flat on his back—nowhere near the plate.

Ramiro staggers backward from the collision. He almost falls, but manages to stay on his feet. He reaches into his glove and pulls out the ball, then raises it high for everyone to see.

"He's out!" Judge Watson shouts. "That's game!"

The crowd erupts in applause.

Ramiro walks over and stands over Smith, still lying on his back in the dirt.

Smith is sucking air, the wind completely knocked out of him.

Ramiro leans over Smith and smiles. "You should've known you can't do that to an American." Ramiro offers his hand.

Smith half smiles. He reaches up and takes Ramiro's hand.

Ramiro lifts the heaving Smith up with one arm.

Smith bends over, hands on his knees as he tries to catch his breath. He finally stands and limps away.

Ramiro pats Smith on the butt as he walks away. "Good game, shorty. Too bad you lost."

The rest of the Bandits rush in from the field and converge at the pitcher's mound, surrounding Bob. Major Kepler, Julie, and Aja run out from the dugout to join them. Ramiro's parents come out as well.

Bob wraps his arm around Julie.

She wraps both her arms around him and kisses him. "I knew you could do it. I'm so proud of you."

Aja's dad and many of the Bandits' parents, brothers, and sisters funnel out of the tunnel and join their heroes on the field. They all share high fives, "attaboys," and congratulations in an exuberant celebration.

An older man steps out of the Dragons' tunnel, wearing a Cincinnati Reds windbreaker and blue jeans. "Reynolds" is lettered across the back of the jacket. He searches, finally sees Bob and heads for him at the mound. "Hey, Coach!" he hollers above the din.

Bob hears him. He sees the Reds jacket and breaks out of the crowd. Bob smiles as Reynolds approaches. Bob holds out his left hand.

Reynolds takes it in his own left and they shake.

"Yes, sir?" Bob asks.

"I'm Curt Reynolds with the Cincinnati Reds ball club."

"I recognize you," Bob says, then introduces himself. "Bob Williams. I had hoped to be playing for your team one day." Bob looks down at his missing arm. "Before..."

Reynolds nods. "That was some pretty decent pitching, but you know it's not nearly good enough to pitch for the majors."

"Yeah, I know," Bob says, smiling. "Sure felt good, though."

Reynolds waves his hand at the rest of the Bandits, still celebrating near the mound. "You've done a fine job with these young men."

"Thanks," Bob says.

"You know a Major Kepler?" Reynolds asks.

Bob turns back at the celebration. He sees Kepler holding Sarah on his shoulders near the pitcher's mound. Bob points at him. "Sure do. He's my boss."

Reynolds gets Kepler's attention, waving to him. "Me and your boss, we go back quite a few years. He gave me a call a coupla' weeks ago. Said I should check out a young pitcher on your team."

"Aja," Bob says. "He's got potential."

"That's the one," Reynolds says. "I'm always on the lookout for a good pitcher, but, truth be known, I'm in dire need of a pitching coach."

Shinji and Ramiro break from the celebration and step beside their coach, listening intently to Coach Reynolds.

"I've heard some good words on you," Reynolds says to Bob. "And I like what I've seen out here today. I was wonderin' if you would mind coming down to Cinci on Monday for a talk?"

"Well...," Bob says, stammering. "I.... well, sure. Of course I will."

"Good." Coach Reynolds hands Bob his business card. "Just have 'em call me when you get to the ball park." Reynolds starts to walk away, then stops and turns back. "I understand your team gets to try out for the Dragons. Let 'em know I'm gonna have scouts watching."

Ramiro and Shinji turn slowly to look at each other. They smile and high five each other, then quickly go back to the team.

"Guys. Guys! Listen!" Ramiro shouts above the celebration.

The team turns their attention to Ramiro.

"The Reds are going to have scouts at the tryouts!"

The team erupts in shouts, with high fives and congratulations all around.

\---

Forward Operating Base Victory - Airfield - Afghanistan

A helicopter sets down in the blowing sand. Bob steps out, wearing full camo, body armor, sidearm on his left hip. He's carrying a baseball glove with his prosthetic right hand.

Four airmen come running up, ducking low under the rotating blades. They grab two large boxes, dragging them off the helo and over to a waiting cargo truck.

Bob climbs into the truck's passenger seat as the airmen load the boxes into the back.

The driver, a young airman, climbs up into the cab. He starts the engine and slides the machine into gear. "Where to, Staff Sergeant? My orders are to treat you like a VIP."

"I like that," Bob says. He points south. "Let's go to the ball field."

\---

The truck pulls to a stop, dust swirling from the wheels.

Bob stares out at the field, remembering the feel of throwing those last fastballs before he lost his arm. It had only been a year, but it seemed like decades ago.

On the field, several airmen and Afghans are playing baseball, using the same old steel plates for bases.

Bob climbs down out of the truck and steps around to the back. The driver meets him there and drops the tailgate.

They each grab a handle on one of the boxes and haul it out, carrying it to the makeshift stands by the third base line. Stenciled on the side of the box: CINCINNATI REDS.

"Let's open it up," Bob says.

The driver gets a crowbar from the truck and runs back. He starts prying the top off.

Bob looks out at the field and smiles when he sees a large sign wired to the backstop, just below the barbed wire ringing the top:

STAFF SERGEANT JOHNNY GRIGSBY MEMORIAL BALL FIELD

Across the field, Bob spots the young Afghan he had pitched to a year ago, the one Johnny wanted Bob to strike out, but who Bob had decided to let hit. It is good to see the young man still alive, still playing baseball. The Afghan teen spots Bob as well, and comes running over, waving for his father to follow.

When the young Afghan teen gets to Bob, he pauses, unsure what to do. He sees Bob's prosthetic arm and smiles. The teen's father steps up behind him, and puts his hand on his son's shoulder. Finally, the teen places his hand over his heart and bows slightly, greeting the American.

Bob looks at the young man. There are so many similarities between this young man and Aja. Bob wonders if all this isn't somehow connected. He helped this man learn to love baseball, and Aja showed Bob how to overcome his bitterness for a whole race of people.

Bob replies in kind, then reaches out and pulls the teen close and hugs him. The teen's father then wraps both men in a big hug.

The driver lays into the last plank holding the top of the box on. He pops the top off.

Bob breaks out of the hug and steps over to the crate. He reaches inside and pulls out a brand new baseball glove. He takes it to the Afghan teen and gives it to him. Bob smiles as the young man's eyes light up.

A couple more airmen crowd around the box.

Bob hands out more ball gloves. He pulls out a padded base and hands it to an airman. "Tell the ump to call time out. Let's fix Johnny's field up a little."

A captain comes walking over. "Staff Sergeant Williams! Major Kepler said you were coming back. You plan to win this war playing baseball?"

Bob hands the captain a glove. "I don't see why not, Captain. Everybody loves baseball."

###
PROFITS TO MILITARY FRIENDLY CHARITIES

I am donating 50% of my revenue from this book to military friendly charities. You can help me identify the best charities to support.

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