Mark McLemore has been running for what seems like days. He lost track of the time long ago. If it weren't for the compass on his wristband, he wouldn't even know which direction he was heading in. He is a stranger in a strange land. His eyes are wide with fear and exhaustion as he finally falters. Stumbling, Mark reaches out with his arms to break his fall. But relief is in sight. He sees his base, his safe haven. Those diabolical black batting gloves that have chased him from Baltimore to Oakland must be long gone, dozens of miles behind him, sputtering as they ingest the dust and brown clay that he left in his wake.
Little does he know that the gloves climbed onto his back somewhere near Reno and sat there waiting...watching...biding their time.