Late September. A getaway game that matters. Doug Fister had just K’d another Kansas City Royal.

Too lazy to keep score, I sat in the afternoon sun backtracking just how many strikeouts my Tigers starter might have. More than a few and less than a — wait a minute, these countless swings and misses were consecutive.

Am I … ? Did he … ? Is this some kind of record?

When the home plate ump rang up Fister’s ninth straight strikeout, when the stadium leapt to its feet and for no reason whatsoever, I found myself turning and looking into the eyes of a man down my row, a man I’d never met, never knew was there until that very moment. Like me, he was still sitting. He looked back.

“Yes, it is,” he said, without saying another word.

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