The eyes, they hadn’t changed. He still had that look in his eyes. Some days, you’d call it a twinkle; other days, you’d call it insanity. Which was totally appropriate, considering the side of the mound he threw from. There are some simple truths in baseball, after all. One of them, whether it would be considered politically correct these days or not, is that left-handed pitchers are not normal. They can’t throw the ball in a straight line, for one thing. Everything a left-hander throws has a little movement on it, no matter how hard he trys to throw the straight fastball. A lefthander, being a total freak of nature, is fragile and more likely to hurt himself. One bad throw and the arm is done forever. I’ve seen it happen.

And left-handers think differently, too. They might be a little absentminded maybe. Or eccentric. Or downright crazy.

“Alex McKnight,” he said. He grabbed my shoulders and didn’t let go. “How long has it been?”

“It’s what, almost thirty years?” I said. “How in the world… What are you doing here?”

“I was in the neighborhood,” he said. “I thought I’d drop by.”

“In the neighborhood, huh? You wanna try that again?”

“Do I get a drink first?” he said. “It’s been a hell of a long day.”

“A drink,” I said. “Of course.”

I introduced him to Jackie. “This man right here,” I said, “played ball with me in Toledo, believe it or not. He was a pitcher.”

“Pleased to meet ya,” Jackie said, shaking his hand. “What are you drinking?”

“Whatever Alex is having,” Randy said.

“Alex is having a beer,” Jackie said. “A beer from Canada. Alex doesn’t drink beer if it’s bottled in America. He makes me go all the way over the bridge just to pick him up a case of beer every week.”

“He doesn’t need the sob story,” I said. “Just get him the beer.”

“You look good,” Randy said to me. “You’ve been working out?”