Soon I will sit in a plastic seat, in a place etched with silver numbers.
I might start way up near the rafters and watch players jog into the outfield.
They will play long toss for a minute or two more.
And stand where they should.
Waiting for the ball to sink toward them.
With sunglasses resting over cap bill, and eye black marking their faces.
They will run at the sound of a crack, and leap toward the the falling ball.
Sliding across the grass with outstretched glove.
Perhaps they will make the play.
Perhaps the play will make them look foolish, and fans will start to grumbele about contracts.
I will care. I will ask.
But I will be watching fans shout, players wince and managers grimace.
The season is nearly here.
I will have a ticket in my hand.
by 