The night in Syracuse seemed workmanlike. Sure, the billboard outside flashed Strasburg’s name. But the stadium was three-quarters full, with a near-vacant upper deck. And the autograph-hungry mobs that crowded near clubhouses after Strasburg’s starts for Hagerstown and Potomac were absent.
Instead, one middle-aged man wearing a red cap waited in the dark. His right hand clutched a bright white baseball and a pen. A breeze picked up, blowing the remnants of Irene closer. The billboard flashed for an empty parking lot. Strasburg was nowhere to be found, but the man didn’t move.
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