Ralph

It was nice out for being practically Halloween, plenty warm enough for baseball, so I brought my glove and wore my Sox cap, and sure enough a bunch of guys were already in a game. They let me in, out in right field.

I like baseball. It’s one of my favorite things. I wouldn’t mind being a pro when I’m old enough, you know? Playing baseball for money? That would be perfect. Right now I’m ten so I should be in Little League this year, except we didn’t have the money, and anyway I didn’t really want to join. They got uniforms and coaches and umpires and dugouts and chalk lines and brand new white balls and people in the stands—I’d be way too nervous. I’d be so afraid of making a bad play it wouldn’t be any fun.

But I like it at the park.

I like doing the play-by-play in my head, even when I’m in the play:

High fly ball out to right field, Cavaletto camping under it, aaand he makes the catch. Throws it back in. Trots on back to his spot. Spits on the ground. Tugs at his cap. Looks up at the sky. Not one little cloud up there. Not one little...single little...

I started picturing a giant mushroom cloud going up and up, spreading out, filling the whole sky, rumbling like thunder but a thousand times louder, and I punched my glove, the pocket I mean, trying to get back in the game:

Cavaletto hoping for another one hit to him, look at him out there punching his glove, punching it, punching it...