On Saturday morning, the first of February, 2003, Space Shuttle Columbia reentered the atmosphere high above the Pacific Ocean on its way to a planned landing in Florida. Its path would take it over San Francisco, past Sacramento, then across southern Nevada and northern Arizona and central New Mexico, passing the Texas line just northwest of Lubbock.

Around noon I headed to the Texas Tech baseball park so as to get there in time to catch the drills and warmups. As I pulled into the parking lot, the pre-game radio broadcast was interrupted by a news bulletin. The shuttle had disintegrated, all aboard lost. Two of the crew were from here, from this place, from this town. Though I don’t recall it, I’m sure there was a moment of silence just before the national anthem. What I clearly remember is how I tried to follow the game, but mostly just stared out over left field into the clear blue skies to the southeast, seeing in my mind’s eye the meteoric arc of the bright flashes left in the wake of Columbia’s final flight, as all the while, over and over, the words of Black Elk ran through my head, the words with which the Sioux medicine man began the last prayer of his life: Dear God, you have caused the Good Road to cross the Road of Difficulties; and where they cross, that place is holy.