The
catcher cocked his mask quizzically, and Benny kicked the dirt and
windmilled his arm a little and shook his head.
He tossed another wild one, this one coming in so low that it
practically rolled across the plate. His teammates were standing up in
their box now, watching him carefully.
"Stop kidding around," Alan heard one of them say. "Just strike him
out."
Benny smiled, spat, caught the ball, and shrugged his shoulders. He
wound up, made ready to pitch, and then dropped the ball and fell to his
knees, crying out as though he'd been struck.
Alan grabbed the little ones' hand and pushed onto the diamond before
Benny's knees hit the ground. He caught up with Benny as he keeled over
sideways, bringing his knees up to his chest, eyes open and staring and
empty.
Alan caught his head and cradled it on his lap and was dimly aware that
a crowd had formed round them. He felt Barry's heart thundering in his
chest, and his arms were stuck straight out to his sides, one hand in
his pitcher's glove, the other clenched tightly around the ball.
"It's a seizure," someone said from the crowd. "Is he an epileptic? It's
a seizure."
Someone tried to prize Alan's fingers from around Barry's head and he
grunted and hissed at them, and they withdrew.
"Barry?" Alan said, looking into Barry's face. That faraway look in his
eyes, a million miles away.
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