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I remember the stars. I was 10 years old. I had just taken the field during the final stretch of a Little League baseball playoff game, but my mind had drifted to earlier in that day when Jenny Cutalo had rejected one of my romantic overtures. “Timing,” she had said, in the same way a doctor might arrive at a diagnosis. It was in that moment, as I was mentally digging through our conversations in search of buried signs of hope, that Gerard Walsh hit a line drive directly into my crotch. As I lay in the grass, overwhelmed with hurt, I remember looking at the stars and wondering how far the light had traveled to reach me. I heard the gentle whooshing of the wind through the trees and felt the grass brushing against my fingers. I remember...

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