THE GAME WAS DRAWING to a close. The sun was low, the shadows long on the field, the players moved in a summer’s-end golden trance; his own son floated in a soft haze far away; the sound of surf came to his ears or he suddenly realized he had been hearing it all the afternoon without recognizing it, the puissant cadence of Ocean behind distant oaks two hundred years old; the beautiful, copper-haired woman, now silent beside him, was his good friend when she might very well have been among his bitterest enemies; his tall son glided like a stranger, ageless, a memory, across the green grass; his own father for a moment or two in a vanished September was alive…