Doubleday's Game of Second Chances
Robert Conover 

Abner knew this would be the case. There would always be the
chance to atone.  For that strikeout in the ninth, for that attempt
to swipe second in vain.  For that costly base on balls that prolonged
the rally, for that first step in for the outfielder that proves fatal.
For virtually every instance in the rules book and out.  It had not
happened for Hatch Combs, that chance to make it all up to the fans
and to Hatch Combs. That one-hop screamer past third base off the
heel of his glove with the winning run on third and two out late last
September.  It had opened the floodgates and emptied the turnstiles 
although there were still three games to play.

Forget it Combs could not.

Come next September the second chance had not come in 
a game critical to the race.
Until now.
Until this split millisecond with 39,482 looking on, an identical
two-out scorcher down the third-base line and that same wicked
in-between skip-skip.
This time.
This time he stabbed.
And the ball stuck, 
driving him to one knee.
Recovering
from momentum
and from memory,
Combs calmly got up
and threw the
speedy Ramirez 
out by two strides.
No appeal
except the
one in his 
baseball
heart.

Hallelujah!