The lights just turned on. Batting practice in the cage. A couple of pitchers stretch their high-school arms with colorful bands clipped to the chain link backstop. Clang. Clang. Clang. Balls ricochet off the top of the cage. A plane flies overheard. The marching band takes a break, they have a way to go be ready for homecoming. A few beats of a drum. A baton flies in the air.
“OK. Everybody. Take four.”
It’s baseball Wednesday. Another game. Another field. Another night. Fall ball. As a parent of a junior, you know there are more games behind you than in front of you. The free days at the ball field winding down, waning away.
Miles is out there somewhere. Stretching, clanging, throwing, readying. Number 21. For Clemente. Now there’s a perspective on time. What’s behind and what’s ahead.
The xylophones chirp to life. Horns. Trumpets. Drums. Take five. They drown out baseball. For a moment.
