McCurdle's front teeth were in the back of his throat. They'd been sent rattling back there by a smoker that'd flown up and in on him. He'd tracked it fine emerging from the pitcher's hand until sunlight danced off some lustred surface beyond centrefield and the orb went from visible to invisible as though a sash had been pulled down before his eyes. Then the godawful impact, like a kicking horse. He sprawled in the dust, staring up at the tranquil...