 When we reach the field, he first stands on the mound, makes an awkward attempt at a wind-up, then does a little sprint from first to about halfway to second. I think I know what you brought, he says, gesturing toward the box, but let me see anyway. I open the box, in which rests a square foot of sod. The grass smooth and pure, cool as a swatch of satin, fragile as baby's hair. Oh...