Midst of the blackout, live from Baltimore, they’re sorting it out on the Yankees station. Middle of the third, though, they’ve got nothing. No ads, no station identification, no chatter, only an open microphone. I stare down at green and brick Camden Yards, floating cheerfully just beneath the 727 holes on the front of my Sony transistor radio. Baleen-like, baseball’s indestructible wires sieve through a sea of particulate sounds—kids, snackers, hawkers, switchers of seats—until there, just there, a small pop, and another pop, and again pop: they’ve caught Pettite’s warm-up throws finding Posada’s mitt.
Consolation Site: Right in his hands