It's tough to see the baseball season come to an end.
Sitting on my favorite bleacher, I watch the last game where my team, the Mets, are pitted against the Giants. I holler as my favorite player trots onto the field toward the batter's box. He carefully ignores my cheers -- a subtle reminder to tone it down a notch.
He places his feet the proper distance from home plate, pushes his batter's helmet back so he can see, hikes up his drooping shorts, lifts the black-and-yellow metal bat off his skinny shoulder, and waits for the pitch.
The pitcher (his coach) holds the ball up for him to see, then carefully tosses it to him. He swings, catches air, and the ball sails past him into the face mask of the catcher who is staring at a beetle in the dirt near his feet. A quick recovery followed by a short, dusty chase after the errant ball, and the catcher throws the ball back, somewhat near the pitcher's mound.