Sienna
In this baseball-obsessed city, Leo Adams was the home run king who never missed.
Every time he stepped up to bat, he'd start with the same gesture. Two fingers tapping his right wrist, then a steady point in my direction.
The whole city spent two months trying to figure out who it was meant for. No one ever did.
No one knew it was meant for me, a team doctor still on probation.
And no one knew about the stream of comments only I could see, always drifting across my vision and calling the outcome of the next swing before anyone else.
Bottom of the ninth, down by one, bases loaded, two outs. Forty thousand people were on their feet, screaming his name.
The comments suddenly flashed blood-red, all at once, with a single message.
One more swing would destroy his right wrist on the spot.
So just before he raised his hand to make that gesture, I stood up and reversed our signal.