This afternoon I stood in line with a group of ten and eleven-year-old boys all wearing their royal blue baseball uniforms. They chatted nervously as we snaked through the long line. They fidgeted and fussed, trying desperately to be patient. Coach McMurray discussed who would and would not be able to attend the upcoming tournament. Boys responded with talk about family vacation plans. Evan, my son, could not stand still. I placed what I hoped was a calming hand on his shoulder and steered him around the final turn in the line. Suddenly the boys were all quiet. They moved ahead slowly, in a nice straight line. A group of children of varying ages, all wearing matching shirts with the number eleven on the back, patted the boys from Evan's team on the back as they shuffled past. We stood before the man and his wife as they dabbed at their eyes. The man wished the boys luck heading into the last games of the season. Nick, number eleven on Evan's team, lay in the casket draped with shirts from the many teams on which he had played. Several of the boys started to cry. Evan turned around to me and said, "I bet Nick gets to hit a grand slam every day in heaven."