 And then it turned out they were playing one day on a lazy afternoon near the start of the summer. The ball, the same one that the Freeport Fry had played with for months, was lost. How did it get lost? It sailed off Hank Sewell's bat over second base, cresting over the iron railroad tracks that ran through the outfield, descending like a rocket on a brilliant harvest night. Then it landed. Thump.