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His first four pitches crackle in the catcher’s mitt. Electric stuff, but I can see he delivers everything at the same speed. He has not thrown a breaking pitch since entering the game. With the count 2–2, I look for a fastball, down the middle, knee high. The pitch leaves his hand, and I hear my father’s voice: Keep your head down and your front shoulder in. I follow his instructions and swing from my ass. The ball climbs high over the outfield. It carries past the fence. Home run.

I am fifty-seven years old and still playing a game I first picked up as a child. And as we reach the end of this book, after all the miles and all the stories, I finally know why.

I play because the game’s mystery still entrances. A pitcher can throw the ball to the same spot with the same velocity in game after game, and hitters cannot touch him. Next game, the same batters smack those same pitches all over the lot. No idea why that happens, but I might just continue throwing to batters until I find out.

I respect the justice of the baseball diamond. The dimensions of some ballparks favor hitters and others grant an edge to pitchers, but the arrangement of the four bases around the mound remains constant in every park and does not favor one player over another. I appreciate how the law of averages evens out for everyone if you play the game long enough. Make perfect pitches, surrender three bloop singles that someone should have caught, and just before you can bitch, someone swats a vicious line drive your first baseman snags to start an inning-ending double play.

I enjoy pulling on the uniform. It means I’m going to match my skills against an opponent and only one of us can emerge the winner. When I slip on spikes I am dressing for battle, and the confrontation between hitter and pitcher holds all the drama and allure of two gunslingers facing off at high noon.

I still love breaking in a new glove, kneading the leather with oil until it feels tacky and wrapping it around an old ball to form a deep pocket. That glove will remain stiff and foreign the first few games I play wearing it, but over time the cowhide will turn floppy and mold itself into the best part of my hand.

I love the ritual of preparing a new bat, scraping the soft wood from its surface, laying resin in the cracks, rubbing the barrel with a femur to flatten the fibers, and roasting the lumber until it hardens. Just like honing a saber.

I love pitching at dusk, when I can lurk in those shadows stretching out over the mound and jump on my prey at home plate. Standing on the rubber puts me at the center of attention and I don’t have to say a word. The game cannot start, nothing can happen, until I let go of the ball.

I love stretching before a game. I stand on the side of the field, my spikes flat on the ground, palms flat out in front of me. Take a deep breath, hold, contract the back of my calves, and exhale as I lengthen. I push forward, the earth moves. I become Atlas shrugging.

I keep lacing up my spikes because I hate wearing suits and I never learned to play cornet like Miles Davis.

Or dance like Fred Astaire

Or sing like Billie Holiday.

I love to hear vendors hawking their peanuts, popcorn, beer, candy, and soda in the ballpark. The sound of people having a good time.

I love the pop the ball makes when a fielder catches it cleanly. Or that rifle crack you hear when a pitch crashes against the sweet spot on the bat. Even if the sound comes to you with your eyes closed, you know that line drive will send the outfielders scampering and no matter how fast they move, the ball will bound past them and slam against the wall on one hop, and the runner will switch gears into overdrive to grab that extra base, and the ball and the runner will converge on the bag simultaneously, and we will all stand on our feet holding our breaths until the umpire makes his call.

And I love another sound that is not a sound at all, but the quiet that enfolds a ballpark when the game is on the line in the late innings and you can hear the heartbeats of the fans as they inch