Michael Schumacher was pitching for the Yankees in an important playoff game. At one point he lost his cool and threw the ball out to left field. It followed the trajectory of a normal pitch, angling slightly down until it hit the wall at knee level. The breach of decorum caused a furor in the stadium but it was amazing how he threw the ball.

Later, a friend—maybe Sean?—pinch-hit a go-ahead home run. I stepped out of the stands and congratulated him at home plate with a chest bump, like a teammate. Later he rejoined the crowd and hung out on a patch of grass with our group, still in his pinstripe pants.

PC and I had joined with a group of other people to rent an apartment for a semester of school. The idea was to save money and concentrate on our studies. There was a TV that wouldn’t work right unless you paid for it, by putting money into it I guess, the way pay TVs used to work at bus stations. If you didn’t pay it made an awful staticky noise that got louder and louder until you turned it off or fed it money. We wanted the TV to work so we could watch Yankee games. There was something the matter with A-Rod in the dream, not what’s really wrong with him but something parallel. There was great doubt as to whether he’d play again, whether he’d be any good. He’d been struggling with some kind of all-consuming injury, something that seemed not just physical but maybe spiritual. Crowds of reporters descended upon him as he emerged for spring training, ready to practice and to test himself for all to see.