Once upon a time, Derek, the little boy in our tale, lay awake. His chest felt squeezed, his mind a stampede. He had dropped the ball you see. And not just any ball. This one was the final throw of practice. The one that…   Smacked into his mitt, stung his palm, and slipped away.   Instead of preparing him for tomorrow, laughter had sprouted from the other children. Not cruel mind you, but loud enough to make his ears burn. Even Coach had sighed.   Sigh!   Just like that. Now, in the quiet of Derek’s sanctuary of sleep on his parent’s floor, he replayed it in his mind—along with this mantra…   Tomorrow is the real game. Tomorrow is the chance to fail (again).   A single tear fell from Derek. But, before it could soak his pillow, a speck of light caught it.   It was his dream.   It trembled beside him, minuscule and sparkly in all its unseenness, as restless and unable to sleep as the dreamer. The dream wanted to help Derek. And so it did.   With a whisper of flickering light, it slipped through the cracks of the night, drifting past rooftops and streetlights, past fire escapes and empty fields, past the echoes of children still playing in the dark of the moon.   It arrived in the nick of time as the train’s silvery doors twirled open like ballerinas, inviting the dream inside. Faster than any train should move, it whisked the dream through tunnels, over bridges, and past stations no New Yorker had ever seen. It carried it upward through clouds, around planets and shooting stars, toward a place not on any map:   Yankeelandia.   The doors splashed onto the ground like water, on this land where legendary pinstripes lived, living under golden lights, where the smell of popcorn and hot dogs mixed with freshly cut grass and leather mitts.   Bronxy Stadium stood tall, its transparently curved wall glinting in the light of dual suns, which grinned for miles as they waited—waited for the game to begin, together with the chorus of voices in the stands.   But something was amiss. The players whispered and shifted. Then whispered again. The game could not start. They were missing…   A dream.   The dream, realizing this, twirled and spun, floating down onto the field and offering itself excitedly. The Yankees looked at each other, before taking their places. The game could now go on.   A faceless player stepped to the plate, their bat carving the air. The crack of wood against leather sent the ball soaring into the stands, where Phil Rizzuto danced across the infield and scooped it up like a heaping scoop of Mint Rocky Road, his one and zero gleaming together on his uniform. Meanwhile, on the pitcher’s mound, Whitey Ford stood tall with his number sixteen aglow, his otherworldly pitches slicing through time itself.   Slice, slice, slice, allowing the Yankees to maintain a two to one lead. It was now the final inning with one out, and the stadium’s giant eyes, along with the eyes of the entire crowd, were trained on the runner on third, who was poised to steal home.   The stadium and the crowd held their breath.   As they did so, a man crouched behind home plate, his mitt inviting. He was known as the Dream Catcher. He waited patiently, as on the mound, Whitey surrendered the dream to Mariano Rivera, who gripped it lightly, feeling its weight and its quiet hum. His four and two shone like the suns.   He pitched. Behind the Dream Catcher, the radiant referee ref’d: strike one. Then came the next throw, which led to strike two.   Another streak of light then—the batter swung. With a crack, the dream soared, twisting and tumbling, tossy and turvy in the timbre of the tungsten spot lights above.   Joe DiMaggio was already moving, his feet quick, his glove reaching as his body folded into the motion as if he had made this catch a thousand times before (he likely had). With a thunk, he caught the dream. Then with a flourish, the third base runner took off running, his legs legging and his arms arming.   DiMaggio turned, his arm snapping forward, the throw cutting through the air—a perfect strike to home. The Dream Catcher braced himself, while the crowd roared as the dream flew and the runner slid.   The mitt closed, the impact of the dream rattling the Dream Catcher’s bones—but he held on. The referee in the umpire uniform stepped forward, lifting his hands.   "Out!"   The stadium shook and closed its eyes, while the Bronxy crowd cheered. Then the Yankee legends rushed the field, their stripes burning brighter than the stars.   ——   In the stands, the children all pointed, their voices rising.   "De-rek! De-rek!"   Derek stared at his glove, almost not believing. He studied the stitches on the dream in his glove. The one that…   Smacked into his mitt, stung his palm, but _did not slip away_.   And said, “thank you!” Then he heard a voice, clear as day:   "Hurray for the Dream Catcher!”   Derek, the little boy in our tale, looked up at Mickey Mantle in the clouds, and his number seven jersey—and smiled. He huffed his chest as his heart stampeded. He had caught the ball you see. And not just any ball. This one.   The one that mattered most.