I’m on the field!

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.

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