The late afternoon sky above the twin brothers was dark, yet rain was not imminent. The grass in the yard was a deep Crayola green, thick and soft like shag carpeting, and in need of trimming. The dandelions were strong and tall, like little soldiers. They were sticky to the touch and sour to the taste. The twins, Finnegan and Ferris, were alone, together, as usual.

A single apple tree grew two hundred feet behind the house, just out of the parents’ sight. There wasn’t much to see from the back door. The parents might have wanted to watch their kids at play, but they had bigger fish to fry, simply keeping the family afloat. There was not much time to dwell on their boys.

Apples hung thick on the tree, blemished and infested by worms, but the perfect size for their little fists. The twins coveted the apples, which could be thrown like baseballs or flung like hand grenades. In their minds, the boys were either in Vietnam, battling the Viet Cong, or in spring training for a Major League team. They figured that the Cleveland Indians, 10 years up the road, would need talented ballplayers like them. The Indians were bad, perennial losers, and they would sign one or both of them out of sheer desperation. It was destined to be.