Jeff Bagwell stood on the edge of the bayou lobbing softballs into the water. It was where the rainbow ended, it ended in his backyard.
Chris Burke looked at himself in the mirror and pulled a few hairs out from between his eyebrows. He looked good. He felt good. Things were good. He could lie if he wanted to. Things were good. Good.
Craig Biggio sat on a woven wicker mat in his zen room, listening to U2 and thinking about the way The Edge curls his lips, thinking about Bono’s big glasses and the lights of ZOO TV tour, thinking about the real thing.
Lance Berkman sunk his claws into the bark of an oak tree and began to climb. He sat on one of the thicker limbs and pawed at a hive full of bees and honey. He thought about dinner.
Brandon Backe just stood on the edge of the stadium roof, looking over highway 59, over the Maxwell House factory into the chemical plants of Pasadena. He could hit those smoke stacks if he wanted to, he thought.
He wished that he’d brought a ball.