Why the hell had he brought along the tape of last season's final playoffs game—the last baseball game of Caleb Bishop's illustrious career—when watching himself in top form was an excruciating torment? "You're a glutton for punishment, aren't you, Bishop?" he said to himself. "How many times are you going to watch that damn tape?" When he stood, he tossed the remote control onto the sofa and headed for the kitchen. His stomach rumbled, as if on cue, the moment he entered the neat, white kitchen. Glancing at the clock on the microwave, he noticed that it was nearly noon. He hadn't eaten a bite since he'd gotten up nearly four hours ago. For the past ten days he had shut himself off from the rest of the world. Living like a hermit, he hadn't even answered the telephone for the first few days. But Tallie's insistent messages warning him that if he didn't pick up the damn phone before long, she was going to drive down from Nashville and personally kick his butt, encouraged him to make contact with the outside world.
