A year ago, he’d played his first major league game.
He hit a home run.
The fans yelled for more.
He took off his helmet, and waved.
He smiled.
He would do it again: line a pitch over the right field wall.
He would knock doubles aplenty into the corner, ball spinning on the track while the runner aboard dug for home.
While fielding, he’d catch routine fly balls.
He would dive for a sinking popup and double up the runner at second base, too.
The fans saw it and would see it again:
He would go 0-4.
With the bases loaded, he would hit a weak chopper to the pitcher.
He would stand in the batter’s box and adjust his helmet.
And squint down the third base line, waiting for a sign.
While standing in the right field grass, he would place his sunglasses on his cap bill.
And wipe the sweat off his face with his sleeve.
Today, the fans stood in silence.
His parents cried.
He played his first major league game one year ago.
Five months later, he was buried.
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