the baseball diaries

This Field is a Dream

As I step out from the corner of the dugout, dark, dank and stuffy, and take in the air outside, I'm revitalized. It's new life. There's a crowd, but I only hear a whisper. There was a time when I could not hear myself think on days like this, but today is different. I walk, yet my feet feel like they're hovering. I'm conveyed up each step by virtue of what draws me rather than my own efforts to move. I reach out for a bat and will it into my hand. My fingers curl around it and stick to the pinetar. I put my hand up to my nose and am intoxicated by the scent. My uniform gleems white as if I'm robed in an angel's garb.

I survey the scene.

This must be a dream. The grass green. The sky cerulean. A wisp of a cloud. I look down at my feet, my cleats polished, black as night. I raise my head and see nine images staring intently at me. Vested in vermilion, they glare, eyes taunting. "I'm observing a painting" I say aloud. The one crouching behind home plate laughs. Closer to the box the dirt crunches under my feet. I have finally landed. The chalk perfectly square. I look again and it now forms an outline of my body.

Left foot in, I brush the dirt towards the pitcher with my right. I stand poised. Paratus. Contra Mundum. A faint hiss followed by a loud CLAAPPP!!!

Then I realize this is not a dream. This is opening day.

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