A guy about my age is standing there in a blue baseball cap and a Cubs T-shirt that fits him perfectly. He looks like he belongs in the team’s dugout, although his hat has a cursive L on the front that I don’t recognize. A small tuft of hair curls at his forehead. He has a warm-brown complexion and kind, dark eyes that are set on me. He’s standing with his hands loosely clasped together, ready to sign, with a woven bracelet around his wrist, perhaps from last summer.
