The pitch took flight, then seemed to pause. For what felt like minutes, Jayson stared at the ball arcing gently over the middle of the plate. But he would not swing. He could not swing. That arc-- that long, cruel arc-- brought all the memories back at once. Jayson froze under the weight of repressed joy, anguish, warmth, and fear dousing him in unison. By the time Jayson came to and recalled his surroundings-- Chicago, 2013, the middle of an amazing August hot streak-- the pitch had already settled in the catcher's glove. The strike had already been called. He glanced at the big screen. 57 miles per hour. He toed at the dirt beneath him, as if to ground himself. Fifty-seven.