“Yah, I retired this past Friday,” Moe Mullins says and leans back in his chair. The game hums from the car radio behind him. It mingles with the cigar smoke and smell of fried onions blowing down the street. It’s a block party and Moe’s the king. “My wife made me go apple-picking Saturday because she knew I’d be here the rest of the weekend.”

 

Here is down on Waveland Avenue with the rest of the ballhawks. They stand along the crosswalk on Kenmore Avenue, eyes fixated to the heavens. Grown men staring up at the blue buzz of the park lights waiting for a homer to careen over the left field fence. Moe’s usually up there, in the bleachers. It’s where he caught Sosa’s 62nd home run in 1998, had it knocked out of his hand, took the guy to court and lost. “It’s too expensive to be in there tonight,” he says. So he’s here, sitting while the rest stand.

 

He watches a few kids run up to a shopping cart filled with baseballs gleaned from the big boppers during batting practice. They take one out and start playing catch. The radio announcer’s voice pulls taut, “A deep fly to left.” The crowd growls from within. The Hawks swarm toward the bleachers. Moe stands and punches the pocket of his Rawlings. The radio dies down. The ball is caught at the wall. Moe runs his fingers over the stitching of his glove and looks at the kids. “Here we go,” Mr. Inside says and motions for a catch. It’s the bottom of the seventh here on Waveland and there’s still time to toss the pearl, still time to be king, still time for one more summer day.