Venus fades in the early morning over a two story stone house in this small agricultural village. The muezzin is calling the faithful in the distance, but it's lugubrious - tending towards a smirk rather than a solemnity. We follow the angle into a simple room at the upstairs window, where a young MAN - he can't be more than 25 or so - is arising from his prayer rug. His room is barren but clean - a well-worn prayerbook lies open on his nightstand, and he murmurs Arabic blessings for the morning as though he knows them by rote. He bends down and folds the prayer rug reverently, then tucks it into a dresser by his bed. On the dresser is a daguerrotype-style picture of him with his parents and two other children, presumably a brother the same age and a baby sister. CUT TO
KITCHEN,
where we see the images of a fresh tea bag steeping in a white cup. The boy - his name is Ali - is still contemplative; prayer-time hasn't worn off yet. He takes saucer in hand and walks out onto the back porch, tilting his head up to sniff the air and closing his eyes. Ali takes a sip of tea, and goes out and walks in the lemon grove in his backyard, closing his eyes and singing along with the muezzin. Then he sighs and begins walking back into the house - it's finally time to go. CUT BACK TO
ALI'S ROOM, where he gets his satchel and starts to leave, then turns around. He bends down OS for a moment, then comes back up and puts on a brand-new New York Yankees cap. He smooths the brim down, then takes the mound, eye on the invisible catcher behind his mirror. He shakes his head - no, not the slider, not the knuckle. Finally he nods slowly - the fastball. He winds up, but midpitch he notices his
SISTER, standing in the doorway, tittering and then running out of the house with her friends. Abashed, Ali tears the cap off, grabs the satchel and heads out of the house to get to services.
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