At the ballgame
When you can feel it, when you look out onto the field, smell the dry dirt underfoot, feel the grip of the stiff blades, when you pour yourself into the pitcher’s body, that’s when reality is suspended and you are neither on your seat nor on the field.
You pack the ball in your glove. You rock back in your chair. You scuff at the mound and look down at the catcher’s raw hand. The chair arm is hot to the touch. The ball hangs slack in your fingers. You push down on your knee and you rise up on your heel and you shift your weight, bring your knee up, stand and begin to cheer, while your arm whips forward as you pivot and push down.
Thwack. Dust drifts from the glove. The umpire calls, “Strrriike. You’re out!” The batter leans back in disgust, the catcher rolls the ball ahead of the plate, and the pitcher walks off the mound.
You sit back in your seat. Take a deep breath. The sky is blue, the grass green, the inning over, your body back and ready to play.