I finished my summer at McCook with a 3-3 record and a 3.54 earned run average. I gave up 41 hits in 56 innings. I walked 55 batters and struck out 56. I have obtained those statistics from a back copy of
The Sporting News
. I'd forgotten them. I have forgotten much from those games, which at the time were so important. Small fragments, like the hailstones in Holdrege, they have dissolved in my memory. There are some, however, that have not melted, that have surfaced hard and cold and sharp from my subconscious. They seldom concern the games ("my only reality"), but rather deal with the dead time I passed in McCook. They float about, banging into one another in a disturbing way until finally they hit a piece with which they fit and form a larger piece and, repeating that process, a still larger one until they have taken a shape I now can recognize.