We stood below the steps like high school runners at district meets.
Someone else can stand in the bleachers and drink Gatorade plucked from the boosters’ cooler.
17-year-olds wore socks mid-calf that showed the city skyline.
Several children carried baseball gloves.
I nestled a shoulder bag under my arm.
Earlier, I saw baseballs fall from the sky.
The Mariners took turns hitting slow pitches into the seats.
I knew the baseballs landed there, between walls labeled with 380’ and 401’.
I knew the balls were trapped underneath those green chairs.
I’d watched from a deck.
Now I could get to the stands.
I slid my foot toward the first step.
The security guard unwrapped a green band that kept us out.
And I ran.
I got there with the teens.
We ran down concrete steps, scanning each row for treasures as if Easter morning.
A minute or two later, one teen carried three baseballs as he walked back up those steps.
And he disappeared into the gathering crowd.
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