3

The buildings enfold our park. All alike in height and shape, all brown. The diamond is familiar to us, and friendly. It is our territory to defend, gravel scattered with sunflower seed shells. Our hands clutch the chain link fences with excitement. There is a coming and going of spectators. Some I know, they might call my name and wave from on top of their hill. And others I don’t recognize. They call other names.
It is hot. The air becomes still on summer days in the city, afraid to move. It makes us afraid to move, humidity drenching our foreheads, concrete absorbing the heat and firing it up towards us. There is nowhere to hide. We silly baseball players, dressed in layers, pants to prevent disfiguration to the knees, claustrophobic in the sun’s rays. I might let go of the fence for a moment, place some ice under my hat, and return to the constant shouting of my team. But I won’t look at the sun. I won’t acknowledge it, for fear of going blind. We just anticipate the next pitch, ignoring the ongoing discomfort of our summer.