Why Pittsburgh, you'll soon ask? Well, I do live there for a few months of the year still, so I've pitted my original hometown boys against my new hometown boys. There you go. Hope you enjoy.

The New York Americans

FIFTH INNING: WAIT

They were lying together in bed, side by side, warm and well-contented. Michael had left his room to call Jack Chesbro, but for nothing else. It was as if Michael were trying to bridge the gap of four years' time and fit it all into a few days.

"I have to go to practice tonight, you know," he said, naked beneath the simple white sheet.

Daniel kissed his collarbone with an eager mouth. Then he pulled away, and sighed. "I know. I can't keep you from your life."

"Not from the team. They took a risk in signing me." His fingers were playing with the chain. "I have to try my best and repay them now." Then he hesitated. "I have a game on Friday." It was Tuesday.

"Here?"

"No."

"Where?"

"Pittsburgh."

Daniel understood. "When do you leave?"

"Tomorrow."

A silence descended upon them both. Then Daniel asked, "Do you want me to leave?"

Michael closed his eyes. "I don't know what I want." Quiet, he stood and began to dress in his training uniform.

"I'll go back to my room in the Battery."

"No … stay here. I'll only be gone for a few days." Then Michael paused. "You have a room downtown?"

Daniel laughed, but it was tinged with cynicism. "See how little we've spoken?"

"We'll have plenty of time to speak when I get back," Michael answered. "Stay, please."

Daniel considered. "There are still things I need to say to you," he said finally.

"And I'll listen to every one of them, when I get back home." Michael, fully clothed now, slipped back into bed one last time. He kissed Daniel. "Stay."

The team welcomed him back with gusto. They cried and cheered, but now, after days of faking illness so that he could stay in bed with Daniel, he really did feel queasy. Perhaps it was only the reluctant separation.

On Wednesday, at seven o'clock in the morning, the players stepped onto the train and went. As it pulled away from the station, Michael felt ready to heave. He had given Daniel the key to his apartment and ample funds to keep him satisfied. But what if Daniel had another man – or a woman, even – over at the apartment?

That would be just as well, Michael decided. Michael and Daniel certainly were not "together" – they only took pleasure in the bodies of each other, nothing else. But could it ever be different?

Michael shook the thought from his head. He tried to force himself to concentrate solely on the game, but it was not easy. Daniel's sweet face kept appearing in his secret mind's eye. He loved the older, wiser, much more mature look of it, though he had noticed that Daniel's smile had lost some of it old, bright, child-like innocence.

The crack of a wooden bat rang out in loud exclamation. Michael's attention snapped back and he watched, from the bench, as a New York American – was it Conroy? – popped a fly ball into left field. A loud cheer from the team went up, Michael's hoarse voice included.

"Good boy, Conroy!"

"Way to go, laddie!"

Michael clapped and whistled. "Good hit, 'Roy!" he called out. "Good hit!"

The bases were loaded now, the New York Americans lagging behind by two points. Chesbro was up, then Michael. Michael's palms began to sweat. There was only one out, but because the bases were loaded, the pressure was mounting. He looked over, and saw the quality of Chesbro's swings. He prayed that Jack would not strike out.

But two swings later, Michael was watching with forlorn horror as Chesbro took another swing and did just that – he struck out. Jack left the field with a disappointed face. The only words in Michael's mind: Oh, Christ.

"Come on, pal," Jack said, giving Michael a quick pat on the back. "Let's get one for the team."

Let's? Michael asked himself. But it's all me, now. He felt the bat in his hands, the quality of the wood. As he stepped up to the plate, he took a final practice swing and felt the quality of the follow-through. Michael never struck out. Michael always got at least one good hit a game, and because it was already the bottom of the eighth inning, he was running out of time to get his one good hit. This, then, had to be it.

He concentrated on the pitcher's hand, the ball. It gleamed white under the lights of the stands. A movement, just one perfect moment between batter and pitcher. Michael tensed. Then came the pitch. It looked good – Michael chose it instantly. He swung. He missed.

"It's okay, Smith," he heard Jack's voice. "Come on, you'll be fine!"

Michael reformed his stance. He raised his eyes to meet the eyes of the pitcher. All was steel, cold and gray. Then another small movement, then the pitch. Another good one. Michael picked it as a perfect ball, and he swung, hard.

Nothing.

"Come on, Michael. Take your time, find your pitch!" Chesbro called.

Michael stood stock still. The lights were glaring, the pressure was crushing. It was the bottom of the ninth inning, and even though the game was exhibition, Michael's obligation was still pressing in on him; the New York Americans were down by two points. The thought ran through Michael's head. The sweat beaded up beneath his helmet, it stained the glove on his right hand. He twisted the bat in his hands. It was now, or it was never.

Under the lights of the stadium, he swung.

He felt nothing, no connection with the pitch at all. For a moment, he could not believe it, and then his head went down in shame. A roar arose from the opposition's fans.

"It's okay, Smith," went an unconvincing, consoling voice. A pat on the back followed. But Michael only felt worse.

Even on the train home that night, as he lay above Jack Chesbro's bunk on his own, he was only thinking, and could not get to sleep.