Baseball is… standing in right field, bored, paying just enough attention to know when to run back to the bench. But it is also… years later, hovering in the sweet spot between second and third, knowing I’d snag any ball that came near me, knowing the coach and my teammates took my skills for granted.

Baseball is… the smell of cut grass and dust and line chalk, the smell of leather and oil and sweat rubbed into a glove I’ve had for ten years, the smell of pizza and Coke after a game.

Baseball is… the glare of sun off a batter’s helmet, the fat umpire bending stiffly at the waist to brush off home plate, the flickering fingers of the coach’s signing hands, but two claps at the end meant, just hit the damn ball.

Baseball is… the thuwmp of the ball landing in a glove, the crack of the bat smashing the ball into the outfield, the pounding of my cleats flying towards first base, the word SAFE yelled loud for all to hear.

Baseball is… summer, youth, memory. It is lessons in winning and losing, and how to throw so that others can catch.

I wonder whatever happened to that old glove of mine.