She shook her head no.
Just day campers, lucky children clad in fluorescent t’shirts with bubble letters, could walk around the track outlining the baseball diamond.
Not students? I asked. Because in two weeks –
No. No. No.
I stared at the kids trotting in the dirt like goats in the spring.
Damn them.
I smiled at the woman’s back; the one who said I couldn’t be a child at a day camp.
And I walked off with my chin tilted to the upper deck, gracious, like a real grownup.
And I asked someone else.
Go there, she said.
So I did.
And I walked down a ramp, and through a hallway that crept along the outfield.
Have fun, I heard.
I beamed.
I turned.
I stepped onto reddish brown clay that edged a shimmering green diamond.
Blessed be.
Could I collect some Mariner dirt and carry it in a plastic bottle like holy water?
There were ushers in khaki and navy to stop me.
So I knelt down to take photographs of the field instead.
Thanks for helping with the kids, an usher said.
I shook a few hands like I was running for office.
Thank you, I said.
by 