The mountainside was cool that evening. Pines cast long shadows on the road, soft light reaching over the high peaks on the other side of the lake and into the basin. I pedaled lazily, letting the bike roll more than I pushed it. I didn’t need to go fast. The game ended at eight. It was still seven-thirty. 

At the entrance to the high school I slowed. Two weeks earlier we’d driven up here in my uncle’s aged pick-up, my little cousin and I in the back seat watching the neighborhood go by. He’d worn his Little League jersey and the blue all-stars cap that was usually displayed proudly on his dresser. In between us sat the black sports bag that we’d stuffed with bats and balls and fielding gloves five minutes prior. We made a circle around the campus, continuing past the baseball fields where a man in a gray polo loomed by a golf cart, preventing us from entering. Instead, we decided to drive down to the public park and take turns batting until we’d hit half of the balls in the bushes. 

Remembering the way, I took a left and followed the road past the desolate school buildings and toward the fields on the far side. Murmurs of a distant crowd reached me beyond the fence. I locked up the bike and stayed for a moment, feeling the breeze on my skin and the dim glow on the back of my neck. I was leaving soon, flying back to the rush and grime of the city where I would no longer see the stars. Memories of my month here were already fading, like a polaroid in reverse. 

But tonight was slow. I could feel the minutes tick by. It was like the maple syrup my cousin always warmed in the microwave before pouring on his pancakes or the slide of the French press plunger that my uncle used to make coffee every morning. Steady moving along. 

My cousin saw me walking toward the diamond and waved me over. The oversized raincoat he wore against the cold bunched at his wrists. He asked me about work and I asked him about the game. Could be better, was the answer to both. It was the fifth inning and his dad’s team was down. Behind center field the scoreboard showed their deficit in boxy red numerals. 

My uncle pitched, tossing up the yellow softball in high arcs. The umpire, in a black tracksuit, sitting behind the plate in a chair too small for his large body, grunted a warning after my uncle threw one too low to the ground. On the next pitch, the opposing batter cracked one past the infield. There was a scramble, an errant throw, and two more runs walked in. 

I was introduced to the three other spectators sitting in between half-empty beer cans and bags of sunflower seeds on the low metal bleachers. They shouted occasionally at the proceedings. 

“He lives in Tokyo,” my cousin announced, “in an apartment building. On the twelfth floor.” 

“How do you like it there?” one of the supporters, a wife or girlfriend, asked. 

“It’s a great city,” I said. 

She didn’t ask me to elaborate. 

The inning ended and the players came jogging back to the bleachers kicking up dirt and cursing. They tossed their gloves aside in exchange for swigs of beer and chatter. Half-believed words of encouragement trailed the first batter to the plate. 

My uncle was up third. He took a few practice swings behind the fence separating the field and the audience, then walked into position as if he were simply crossing the kitchen to get a drink of water. Two outs. My cousin and I pressed up against the fence. One strike, two strikes. My uncle stepped back, cut the air with another practice swing, and stepped forward again. 

The pitch was fast, barely rising above head height on its path toward the strike zone. There was a clank of aluminum. All our heads craned to watch the ball soar over the dirt infield, the untrimmed grass in the outfield, and finally the barrier that marked the edge of the play area. The ball disappeared past the horizon with the sun. 

The deficit was cut to 15-3.