I want to thank Jonathan Galassi for his continued belief, guidance, and wisdom. Andrew Blauner for his tireless advocacy of this book. Valerie Slaughter for her exhaustive and imaginative tracking down of ’70s minutiae. Karl Akermann, who makes my creative space possible. This story first began as a screenplay, and over the years, people have believed in it and tried to get it made—Susannah Jolly first and foremost among them. I’ve not given up hope. Big ups to my brother from another mother Matthew Warshaw for letting me use his encyclopedia of all things ’70s, aka his brain. A big gracias to Rodrigo Corral for the Spanish help. Also Jimmy Capuano—gone but never forgotten. There is so much great baseball writing and I am indebted to countless sources, but I think I would single out W. P. Kinsella and Roger Kahn for shout-outs on the PA. Also, it was through Andrew Curtis’s phenomenal documentaries that I learned of Edward Bernays. And lastly, this whole story stems from an afternoon one summer years ago when I was out in Massachusetts at Téa’s family home, and two men were working on the roof, just talking while they worked, and I overheard one refer to “Bucky Fucking Dent” and “Bill Fucking Buckner.” Buckyfuckingdent. Like it was one word. Being from New York, I’d never heard it before. The phrase made me laugh. It still does. Something about it. It stuck and waited for a story to be written beneath it. This is how it begins. So—a debt of thanks to the man on the roof.