Up goes the ball at the crack of the bat and it lingers, just for a second, against the cloudless sky. Then it falls (thwap!) right into Ramirez's glove. Three outs and the Cubs trot off the field. Their turn at the plate now. Our turn.
In a flicker it comes to me that, a long time ago, I taught my son Tyler how to catch pop flies. I used a tennis ball so he wouldn't hurt himself if the ball clonked him on the head. He'd stick his glove up in the air and wave it around like he was trying to scare the ball away, and sure enough, the ball usually ended up floating in a puddle twenty feet behind him. Tyler's married to some guy in California now, Gideon, and he studies the migratory habits of gray whales for a living. I haven't been to see him. Them. I haven't been to see them. Them, them, them.
The crowd roars and I blink and take a look around the stadium. I'm eating peanuts and Cracker Jack with 40,000 of my closest friends. It's a bright day, a brilliantly bright day, perfect for a ball game. I watch the Cardinals take the field now, and they're hustling in their black hats and baggy uniforms. They toss the ball to one another. Their pitcher, a kid I never heard of, some phenom with sideburns who made it through spring training, takes his warm-up throws off the mound. He's got this wind-up where he leans too far to the left but after a couple more, he says he's ready to go. The catcher throws the ball down to second and Fukodome comes to bat and I get to my feet, first game of the season at Wrigley, here we go, and I holler, “Let's go boys, let's get some hits now, let's start things off right this time, come on, boys, come on!—”
2008