The potato left his hand with a sound no one expected—not a thud, not a hiss, but a low, wet whump, like something alive being evicted from its body. It spun once, twice, end over end, trailing a faint vapor as heat met air. For a fraction of a second it seemed too heavy, too ordinary, too foolish to be airborne at all. Then it climbed. The crowd did not cheer. Cheering would have implied confidence. This was something else entirely. A collective intake of breath rolled through the stadium like weather. Phones rose. Mouths opened. Somewhere in the upper deck, a man dropped his beer and did not notice.