At the Ballpark

I love to hear the Star Spangled Banner, the pop of the ball in the catcher’s mitt and the roar of the crowd, to smell the aroma of hot popcorn, peanuts, and Cracker Jack, to stare at the catcher, get the sign, nod and throw... At the ballpark I love to hold the cowhide-covered ball, to twirl it in my hand, to smell the wet, freshly-cut grass, to gnaw on the salty sunflower seeds... At the ballpark. I love to hurl the white sphere spinning toward the batter to watch him sit down on the bench and to walk off the field in all my glory... At the ballpark. I love to stare at the scoreboard, To look at the zeros across and smile, to spit out the mixture of tobacco and warm water... At the ballpark. I love to drink cold Gatorade after a hard inning, to have hands slapped against mine, to hear “Congratulations!” and my manager say “Atta boy!”... At the ballpark. I love to wave to the crowd, to hear their hands clapping and their feet stomping, to lick the sweat from above my lip, to free myself of the sticky equipment... At the ballpark. I love to be pat on the shoulder, to hear the words of encouragement from my coach and to smell his cologne, to stare across the diamond at the batter... At the ballpark. I love to hear “Out!” called in a low, scratchy voice for the twenty-seventh straight time; a perfect game; to taste victory, to pump my fists and hug my catcher... At the ballpark. Magical things can happen anywhere, but especially... At the ballpark.This is supposed to be all weirdly spaced...but it didn't come out that way... Written April 20th, 2002 © on Apr 20 2002 08:59 AM PST   0 • 10