justification round the dinner room table. you’ve said all these words before, silly parody, yet you feel the need—you want them to believe in wealth, in a great breaking.

jack buck says, “you know, improbably, i tire of baseball. it’s all just hits and pitches and spit. nostalgia.” he dreamed as a child of painting his face, dancing with folks round a blaze of fire. “i don’t know what ever happened to that.”

he’s in the Wood Shed, head cocked, listening. he’s picked up the local dialect, affected the common mannerisms, colloquialisms, routines of commerce. the days become seasons, the seasons a lifetime.