From here you can see the sun glinting off the silver boxes that say 26, 27, 28.
You’re in the right row, gentle fan.
But I’d walk closer.
Stepping down the concrete.
And I’d sit a few rows behind the dugout and nod at players.
Sometimes they’d tear off their helmets and the slam their batting gloves onto the steps.
A batboy would pick up the mess.
I might change my opinion on the player.
I’d hear him cursing after a strikeout because he’d been fooled.
Maybe next time that batter would settle for a cutter: he’d swing and meekly drop the ball into the second baseman’s glove.
And I would watch, waiting for someone to gently tap me on the shoulder, staring at their ticket stub.
“I think?”
“Yes, my mistake.”
I’d smile and move closer to the field.
And watch the baseball seams skidding through the air.
Dirt collected on home plate.
That batter again.
He’d wait for something he wanted.
I’d see another player clench his jaw and mutter.
It was a pitcher this time.
I was there, after all.
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