It all starts far, far from any stadium. There are no diamonds and no throngs of adoring fans—just a crackling radio hissing through a stale summer garage into air as golden-tinged as the dead, yellow lawn.
There’s a man’s voice: “He stood there like a house by the side of the road and watched it go by…and Thomas is OUT, for excessive window shopping!”
The voice is as thick as the greasy garage air, syrupy and mellifluous from decades of polishing.
