I watched an A’s player swing through a ball and walk back to the dugout.
He watched the dirt morph into grass below his cleats.
What, then?
A minute to remember each pitch: slider, curve, straight change?
Must he sit and wonder what had happened back in high school, in school ball, summer ball, city ball, minors?
Yesterday?
With every jersey a moment to say it’s been enough now.
Ingrained with loyalty to teammates who stick it out, or maybe afraid to turn into them.
Surely, loyalty to his heart would suffice.
Still, that he might’ve gone to college, instead?
Or had a job, just something.
Instead he sat in the dugout.
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