We arrive at the game early, but it seems like everyone on the team does. First game of the season! Some of us are milling around and talking to each other. Others are still sitting in their parents’ cars because it’s a cold morning.

I’m talking to Andy, and we’re both stomping the ground and blowing into our hands. The Weather Channel said it was forty-eight just before I left home. The air is kind of damp, too, which makes it feel colder. I’d play baseball on the Siberian tundra, but to be honest, I like it warmer. Everyone does.

Everything stings more when it’s cold: The bat stings your hands when you make bad contact, and the ball stings more when you catch it on the palm. It would definitely sting more if you got beaned.

Most of us are wearing long-sleeved T-shirts under our jerseys. That’s not much in terms of warmth, but it’s sort of uncool to wear anything heavier. Plus, it’s still early. First pitch is a ways away, and it will probably warm up some by then. The cloud cover could burn off, and next thing you know you’re standing around sweating.

Anyway, we all hope we’ll be circling the bases and making so many great plays in the field that we can just stay warm that way. A few of the younger kids have sweatshirts on under their jerseys, but you can’t really blame them. As far as I’m concerned, the coldest place on the entire planet is sitting on the bench.

After fifteen minutes, the last few Braves arrive, and the others finally climb out of their cars. They look up at the gray sky like it just punched them. So here we are: the Tall Pines Braves, all present and accounted for. And there still isn’t a single Craven Yankee in sight, just some unfamiliar parents sitting together on the bleachers. It was the same thing last year. I think the Yankees make a point of arriving late. It’s like psychological warfare or something: build up the suspense.

Normally I’d say it just gives them less time to warm up. Today, I think it gives them less time to cool down. Whatever the case, we take the field to stretch and run through some drills. With only one team here, it could almost be a practice. If they don’t arrive soon, it will be.

We have league umps for games, and they stand together sipping coffee. I guess it’s coffee, anyway, because they hold their hands around the cups like they’re warm rocks. Dad let me try coffee once when I was seven. I don’t know how anyone ever drinks that stuff.

Anyway, we’re just running through the normal pre-game stuff, and here comes this big, shiny passenger van, pulling in to the lot and honking its horn. It’s dark blue, Yankees blue. They must have rented it for game day.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I say.

As soon as it pulls to a stop, the side door slides open, and the Haven Yankees start pouring out of it like it’s a landing craft in a World War II movie.

“Hey, Jack,” Dustin says.

“Yeah?”

“What’s dark blue and full of idiots?”

I laugh and throw the ball back to him.

The Haven coach heads right for Coach Wainwright. He starts barking words at Coach when he’s still ten feet away. I notice the two of them don’t shake hands, and I sort of understand why the Haven games always seem to mean a little more to Coach than the others.

Anyway, long story short, they kick us off the field. They’re late (and whose fault is that?), so they need to warm up right away. We’re almost done, anyway, but it’s still annoying.

I’m glad when the officials tell them to hurry it up. Now that their coffee cups are cold and empty, they want to get the game started. Fine with us, we were on time.

The Haven coach barks about that, too: yap, yap, yap. Finally, he says, “All right, give us ten minutes.”

“You got ten,” says the home plate ump.

Ten minutes till the start of the season. I can’t wait!