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Robin Yocum The last time I saw my brother I had just walked past the giant Longines clock that sat atop the scoreboard at old Forbes Field in Pittsburgh. It was three forty-six in the afternoon on Saturday, July 27, 1968. Timmy, as he was apt to do, wandered several steps behind me. The man-child was lost in his own world, strumming his lips with his fingertips like they were banjo strings, that perpetual quizzical look stretching across his brow, as though he was forever pondering his place in this universe. He walked in a rhythmic, synchronized gait, his hunched