HOUSTON — The fall came with the completeness of a total eclipse of the sun, a shadow spread across a stadium throbbing with expectation.

One minute the leather-lung men and women behind me in center field 440 feet from home plate (to sit there is a bit like watching the game from the International Space Station) were bellowing and hurling joyfully unprintable invective at the Nationals. Astros first baseman Yuli Gurriel had launched a moon shot into the left-field stands and Zack Greinke, one of the Astros’ trio of aces, was methodically working a one-hitter.

Greinke is a phlegmatic artist and he has a curious hitch in his delivery. He pauses, leg in the air, and seems to consider which of 14 varieties of sliders, curveball, changeup and fastball to drop on befuddled batters.

The Astros clung to a two-run advantage going into the seventh inning. All game long they had put runners on base and fumbled too many chances to score for true comfort. But just nine more outs and the Astros could claim their second World Series championship in three years. It was not to be.