Spring training

     They pay a tall, skinny guy with a beer belly to come out between games with a hose to spray down the infield and then rake the mound.  The infield has nice, thick grass.  The outfield, where I patrol, is mostly sand and weeds. 

     Your spikes push small craters into the sand as you jog out to your position, slowing to a walk and then stopping when you know it is far enough.  You take a few kicks at the weeds that lay flat against the ground, then turn to start throwing with the center fielder.

     It is hot.  So much hotter in the sun, even for the morning games, than it was just a moment ago in the shade of the battered green dugout.  You are sweating already and wipe your forehead between throws with the terrycloth band on your forearm.  You squint up at the sun, rising high above the palm trees that line the field on the first base side.

     The catcher yells, “Comin’ down!”  The second baseman and shortstop line up for the throw, which invariably skips in the dirt ahead of the bag. 

     You take a final throw from the center fielder and lob the ball in a long arc toward the dugout.  One of the lanky pitchers leaning on the corner takes a casual step out to snag the ball on its fourth hop, tuck it into his back pocket and step back again into the shade.

     The starting pitcher finishes scuffing a hole in front of the rubber. 

     You bend over, settling in with your glove and your bare right hand firmly planted on your knees.  Without standing up you swing your weight around and look back over your shoulder at the fence.  Always the fence.  This one has narrow wooden slats, three feet high, strung together an inch or two apart with stiff rusted wire.  Half falling down, but sturdy enough to really hurt you if you forget it’s there and run into it.  And so you don’t forget.

     You look in to the pitcher, who is sweating freely and swiping at his face with the back of his glove, waiting for the leadoff man to finish digging his own hole.

     We are all set, now.  The pitcher takes the ball from his glove. 

     You take your hands from your knees, and lean forward on your toes, feeling the sand give slightly. 

     As the pitcher winds, and you breathe in and tense your legs.

     It is about to start, right now, this thing that is so repetitive and familiar but also, with each pitch, is fresh and clean before you.  Anything can happen next.

     And with every pitch, every single pitch, you think, “Come on, hit it here.”