At an American baseball game, a stranger will throw his arms around you the instant your side scores. I did not know this. So when the ball sailed over the wall and the man beside me seized me in both arms and lifted me off my feet, I understood only one thing. We had sworn an oath. In my country, men embrace like this once, perhaps, in a lifetime, on a battlefield, agreeing to die for the same lord. This man had done it over a ball, with mustard on his shirt, and he did not even know my name. But an embrace is an embrace. The oath was struck. We were now brothers, bound to the same banner, whatever banner that was. A lesser man would have stepped back. I did not. I turned to him with the full weight of what we had become. “I will not forget this,” I said. He shouted “LET’S GOOOO” directly into my face, which I took as the war cry of our new house. Then our side scored again. He seized me again, tighter, both arms, my feet leaving the ground a second time. So now we had bled together twice. The bond deepened with every run. By the fourth, he was pouring half his beer in my general direction, an honor I did not understand but accepted with grace. I began to worry. A man can only swear so many oaths before he must choose which to honor with his life. By the seventh, the entire section was on its feet, every stranger gripping every other stranger, a hundred sudden brothers roaring as one, and I stood among them, sworn now to all of it, every man in that row, the children, the man selling peanuts, the entire third base line. A lesser man would have been crushed by so many vows. I have decided I am simply blessed with the largest family in America, and when the final run crossed and we all embraced as one, weeping strangers under the lights, I held them, every one, and meant it. My brother in the mustard shirt left without a word when it ended. He did not say goodbye. He did not need to. We will never speak again. But if his lord ever calls, I will come.