From “Christ as Man of Sorrows,” a short story:

…It’s the top of the ninth and I’ve made my way slowly over to the Disc Swap dugout. All movement—pulling my lighter from my pocket, dropping and crushing a cigarette, spitting on the grass—has been subtly pulling me in this direction. What’s that? Better take a closer look. An empty condom package! How interesting. I rest my chin on the chainlink fence and stare at Jenny. She sits about ten yards away, alone, lover boy’s team on the field. I will her to look back at me. She watches the action, a hand shielding her eyes from late afternoon sun. Laughing at something, she brushes a fly away, twirls a lock of hair.

Then she turns her head and looks right at me, squinting, hand still above her eyes. I smile—I’m sure too widely, feeling ridiculous, scared, happy—and raise my hand shoulder-height, a slight turn of the palm, barely a wave. She stares at me a beat, maybe two, and then turns back to the field, expression never changing. Maybe she swallows once, but I’m not sure. Someone screams “Fuck,” there are muttered congratulations, and the Disc Swap players return to their dugout.

I walk away—not quickly, but definitely not the slow, unsure tread which brought me here. Up the stone steps of the stands, I pass the two bums still sharing that bottomless can of beer, move between the running children shrieking out of happy, sweaty faces. The bird killer looks me in the eye, but her expression of joy never wavers. I am the first to look away.

It’s about a twenty-foot drop, if that, to the pavement from the top of the bleachers. I wouldn’t die if I were to jump, unless maybe I hit the pavement head-first. Even then I might just wake up in a hospital bed a vegetable or operating an electric wheelchair with my mouth for the rest of my life. The thought gives me a shiver and I put my forehead against the black railing which runs along the top of the bleachers. Its cool metal feels nice against the sweat on my skin...