When the sun slips into a dusky grey, one gathers gloves with some reluctance.
One picks up bats that lean against a backstop, and searches for baseballs in the tall grass somewhere in left center.
Of course, there is a late dinner to attend to, unless one has already wolfed down chicken during the 7th inning stretch. There was no God Bless America, but World, and within normal vocal range.
But when life has slipped away – not for one but for all – it’s better to sit in the dirt for a little while. In time, stand, and walk, and play long toss.
To run and play at once seems tiresome, when there is so much to remember. To suspend the day’s game on account of tears drowning the ball field, sometimes, is enough.
The sun comes, but not too soon.
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