He tossed another wild one, this one coming in so low that it practically rolled across the plate. His teammates were standing up in their box now, watching him carefully.
“Stop kidding around,” Alan heard one of them say. “Just strike him out.”
Benny smiled, spat, caught the ball, and shrugged his shoulders. He wound up, made ready to pitch, and then dropped the ball and fell to his knees, crying out as though he’d been struck.
Alan grabbed the little ones’ hand and pushed onto the diamond before Benny’s knees hit the ground. He caught up with Benny as he keeled over sideways, bringing his knees up to his chest, eyes open and staring and empty.
Alan caught his head and cradled it on his lap and was dimly aware that a crowd had formed round them. He felt Barry’s heart thundering in his chest, and his arms were stuck straight out to his sides, one hand in his pitcher’s glove, the other clenched tightly around the ball.
“It’s a seizure,” someone said from the crowd. “Is he an epileptic? It’s a seizure.”
Someone tried to prize Alan’s fingers from around Barry’s head and he grunted and hissed at them, and they withdrew.
“Barry?” Alan said, looking into Barry’s face. That faraway look in his eyes, a million miles away. Alan knew he’d seen it before, but not in years.
The eyes came back into focus, closed, opened. “Davey’s back,” Barry said.
Alan’s skin went cold and he realized that he was squeezing Barry’s head like a melon. He relaxed his grip and helped him to his feet, got Barry’s arm around his shoulders, and helped him off the diamond.