I sat alone in the baseball dugout, my ears searching for a voice—no matter how distant—my eyes straining for a silhouette to emerge on the horizon. “Deep Throat,” my mysterious source for the entire four-month investigation, was about to be revealed on a blustery, gray March afternoon.
I checked the time on my cell phone. The note said to meet at 4 p.m., and it was now 4:05. Don’t blow me off! The snow on the pitcher’s mound had nearly melted away, leaving a muddy mess.
My story was a muddy mess, too, unless I could confirm my explosive information. I had to meet my Deep Throat face to face. This wasn’t some puffy high school feature I was writing. It was hard news! It could result in jail time, for God’s sake! Where is he—or she? Suddenly I heard footsteps … and a shadow crept forward from behind the dugout.