Baseball is deep in slumber. Far above ground, the charlatans and the profiteers argue over drugs and money while the game sleeps soundly.
Oh, I wish it were spring. I wish for a warm May afternoon in a ballpark from the days of past. With the cigar smoke in the stands and the men still wearing their suits and hats, hiding from work and life's dreary responsibilities. Mean, scrappy players on the field in uniforms permanently and hopelessly dirty from just the first month of the season. At least one manager who is older than dirt.
A runner coming around third with menace in his heart.
A shortstop diving into the stands.
A 3-6-3 double play.
A few too many beers -- before, during and after the game. The sun beginning its decline in the late innings . . . the air starting to cool . . . the score tied . . . the batter hits a laser to center that the fielder stabs to end the inning.
The game continues . . .
