It was a lazy Monday afternoon, and Robbie, Marty, and Ben were back at Eddie Murray Field. The big thunderstorm of two days ago had left everything looking fresh and green and shiny. The cinnamon-colored base paths had been raked smooth, and the smell of new-mown grass filled the air.

The end of baseball season always made Robbie sad. But there was no place on earth he’d rather be today, throwing the ball around with his buds.

They were playing their favorite game again: diving over the rickety outfield fence to rob imaginary home run balls, each boy taking a turn with the play-by-play call:

“THERE’S A DRIVE TO DEEP CENTER FIELD…THIS ONE HAS A CHANCE…BUT, WAIT, HERE COMES LOOPUS! LOOK AT HIM RUN ON THOSE SPINDLY LEGS! NOW HE NEARS THE WALL AND ELEVATES…AND SOMEHOW HE COMES DOWN WITH THE BALL!”

“THAT BALL IS CRUSHED! LANDRUM GIVING CHASE…HE LEAPS AND…LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, I’VE NEVER SEEN ANYTHING LIKE IT! BEN LANDRUM, THE ONE-ARMED PHENOM YOU’VE HEARD SO MUCH ABOUT, JUST MADE A CATCH FOR THE AGES!”

“TWO–TWO COUNT…DON’T WANT TO MAKE A MISTAKE HERE…OH, HE HIT THAT A TON! HAMMOND GOES BACK…STILL GOING BACK…AT THE WARNING TRACK, AT THE WALL…NOW HE DIVES TOWARD THE SEATS AND…YES-S-S! SOMEHOW HE MAKES THE GRAB!”

A half hour later, sweaty and tired, they sprawled in the grass behind second base. The conversation quickly turned to Saturday’s game and the exciting finish.

“Big Red went majorly psycho at the end, there, didn’t he?” Marty said.

“He’s gonna regret it, too,” Ben said. “You probably missed it with all the thunder and lightning and rain. But after he tomahawked the plate, the ump ejected him. Which means he’s going to miss the first game of the playoffs.”

“Bet the Yankees are thrilled about that,” Marty said. “Their coach probably wanted to strangle him even before that.”

“I actually felt sorry for Big Red when his mom came on the field and started yelling at their coach,” Robbie said.

All three boys nodded somberly.

“Yeah,” Marty said, “did you see the look on the kid’s face? Like he wanted to crawl in a hole and die.”

“I don’t blame him,” Ben said. “If my mom ever did that when I was playing, I’d never speak to her again.”

“Yeah, right,” Marty said. “Not until you needed her to drive you somewhere. Or wash your clothes. Or cook a meal. Or help with homework. Or give you money for iTunes. Or—”

“Okay, okay,” Ben said, laughing. “I get the point.”

“Maybe Big Red’s mom was just having a bad day,” Robbie said. “She probably didn’t mean to embarrass him. Guess she thought she was protecting her kid.”

“Here’s a news flash for you,” Marty said. “I’d be way more scared of her than of Big Red.”

“I guess,” Ben said. “But Big Red’s the one throwing seventy-five-mile-per-hour fastballs at you during a game.”

“Speaking of games,” Robbie said, pointing to Ben, “you’ll be playing in our league next year. Dad says you’ll be one of the best players, too.”

“I don’t know,” Ben said. “I got a lot of work to do before then.”

“Look how quick you get the ball out of the glove now,” Robbie said. “Go ahead, give us a little demonstration.”

They stood and moved some ten feet apart. Robbie fired the ball at Ben, who caught it easily. He tucked his glove under the stump of his missing arm with a practiced motion and plucked the ball out smoothly before firing it back.

“Look at that!” Marty said. “You’ve totally got it down!”

Ben threw himself back on the grass, his face reddening. But Robbie and Marty could see he was pleased.

“Wouldn’t it be great if we were all on the same team next year?” Marty said. “Robbie would be, like, the best pitcher in the league, now that he’s not crazy anymore and worried about killing someone with a fastball.”

“Thanks for being so sensitive,” Robbie said, shaking his head.

“Ben would be the best hitter in the league,” Marty continued, “even with just one arm. And me, I’d be…” His voice trailed off.

“You just be you, Marty,” Ben said. “That’s good enough for us.”

Marty smiled. “Well, remember that famous saying: ‘Today you are You, that is truer than true. There is no one alive who is Youer than you.’”

“Okay, who said it?” Ben demanded. “Aristotle? Benjamin Franklin? Mark Twain?”

“Nope,” Marty said, “that was my man Dr. Seuss.”

“Close enough,” Robbie said as they all laughed.

Then he jumped to his feet and threw another towering fly ball into the clear blue sky, a sky that looked near enough to touch.