The left-field sunset has faded. It is chilly now. You slip a sweatshirt on. The stat sheet you hold in your hands almost feels wet, the air is so damp. But the ink doesn’t run. You can read it. That kid from LSU is still leading the league in home runs. That pitcher who they say throws 95 — he’s way up on the list in strikeouts.
The game is close, 3-2 through seven innings. You’re staying till the end.
You look out at the field. Some fog has slipped in. It settles like smoke, just off the grass in front of the right fielder, like a cloud. When he runs through it to catch a fly ball, it looks almost magical, maybe even spiritual, like he’s playing baseball in heaven.
Maybe he is.
The baseball is pure here. The players eager. The fans, maybe some of them don’t know what they’re seeing, maybe they just heard it was a fun night out, good for the family and everything — but they know. They know somehow that this thing, this Cape League, is special.
Really, there’s nothing like it.
I’m going to try and keep up.
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