The ball hits off the garage door with a bang and a rattle as the door shakes in its frame. The young boy receives the bright green ball back into his new baseball glove, fitted snugly on his right hand. He fixes his brown eyes intently on the target in front of him, the center panel of the large wooden door, the paint slightly worn away by the repeated beating.
“Top of the 9th with two outs in game seven of the world series. The count is 3-2 as the Athletics’ ace leans in,” says the voice in the boy’s brain. A slight spring breeze, still cool from winter, rustles the boy's hair. He sets and hurls the ball again, missing his target by a long shot and he scrambles down the driveway to retrieve it, a sigh of frustration leaking from his lungs.
Hovering on the breeze, the sigh floats up the pavement to the porch on the side of the house where the boy’s father sits and watches him. Rather than smile at the innocence of his son’s frustration, the boy’s father is far away. Staring but not seeing. The grill next to him smokes as the smell of the evening’s dinner wafts on the gentle draft, a glass of wine—hardly touched—sits on the table in front of him.
From his perch the father looks through his son, now beginning his mantra once more as he prepares for the game-winning strikeout. The pitch—better, but still outside the strike zone. The father only sees a fog. An open envelope from the state court sits nearby, offering little but uncertainty and fear. He tries to be in the moment—to enjoy seeing his boy playing in the driveway. How many more times will he get to see this? But he can’t bring himself there. He fumbles with his emotions, his anxieties, his plan for what comes next.
Setting himself up again, the boy rolls over the scene in his head once more. Taking a deep breath, he sets, throws the ball and nails his target—strike three. With the uninhibited joy only youth can bring, he throws his glove into the air and begins a victory lap around the driveway, arms stretched high above his head.
The glass makes a slight ring as it is placed back on the table. Watching, he sees as his boy runs up the driveway, deeper into the fog, until he can’t see him anymore.
-Zach
“Top of the 9th with two outs in game seven of the world series. The count is 3-2 as the Athletics’ ace leans in,” says the voice in the boy’s brain. A slight spring breeze, still cool from winter, rustles the boy's hair. He sets and hurls the ball again, missing his target by a long shot and he scrambles down the driveway to retrieve it, a sigh of frustration leaking from his lungs.
Hovering on the breeze, the sigh floats up the pavement to the porch on the side of the house where the boy’s father sits and watches him. Rather than smile at the innocence of his son’s frustration, the boy’s father is far away. Staring but not seeing. The grill next to him smokes as the smell of the evening’s dinner wafts on the gentle draft, a glass of wine—hardly touched—sits on the table in front of him.
From his perch the father looks through his son, now beginning his mantra once more as he prepares for the game-winning strikeout. The pitch—better, but still outside the strike zone. The father only sees a fog. An open envelope from the state court sits nearby, offering little but uncertainty and fear. He tries to be in the moment—to enjoy seeing his boy playing in the driveway. How many more times will he get to see this? But he can’t bring himself there. He fumbles with his emotions, his anxieties, his plan for what comes next.
Setting himself up again, the boy rolls over the scene in his head once more. Taking a deep breath, he sets, throws the ball and nails his target—strike three. With the uninhibited joy only youth can bring, he throws his glove into the air and begins a victory lap around the driveway, arms stretched high above his head.
The glass makes a slight ring as it is placed back on the table. Watching, he sees as his boy runs up the driveway, deeper into the fog, until he can’t see him anymore.
-Zach
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