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The last time I was at Citi Field, the game started with a close play at first. The Mets’ first baseman ranged far to his right, away from the bag, to field a sharply hit grounder. He tossed it to pitch who had run over to cover first. The throw was off target, so the pitcher had to stretch to make the catch, badly tearing his hamstrings.

The Summer we lost our innocence, and the car keys. [ An excerpt from the highly anticipated memoir by Harper Wong-Goldman-Echevarria-Smythe III.] Father turned the chestnut brown, ’79 Chevy Malibu family station wagon off of Rte 507 North onto the gravel-covered driveway, marked by the dogwoods uncle Joe planted by way of apology to Aunt Mini. They stood thin and tall, much like the breadsticks at a very good Italian Restaurant, the kind that has cloth napkins and doesn’t serve pizza—well maybe the individual pan pizza, but not slices, slices are tacky.