Sitting on cold silver steel, I find myself completely indulged in an activity utterly foreign to my mind.  There's a chilly breeze passing by that jolts my nerves, but it playfully tugs at the field's grass.  Yellow jackets angrily swarm the bleachers, trying to protect their metal, but they dare not interrupt the sand diamond.

He's just beyond the fence, not in the center of the field, but in the center of my eye.  He watches the ball like I watch him, waiting for the next move, and he's waiting for his chance.  Our pitcher doesn't move yet, and the bitter air bites with anticipation.  I look back to him, and he's impatient.  He pats his glove, then his kneecap, then the brim of his hat, then his shoe, then his ear.  He establishes a pattern of sense to collaborate with his overfilled mind; he's trying to push through the wall of thoughts telling him he's wrong.  He's not wrong; He's just stuck.

His father calls from the sideline, trying to pull him through the play and trying to help him find the best path.  It doesn't help; it just adds another door to an over-crowded hallway, another door to pick from.  I wish the world was quiet; I wish the leaves would stop falling and the clouds would vanish from the sun and I wish I could find some way to help him.  The wind blows again, scattering the sand across his golden ballroom.

The Pitcher pulls back his arm to throw the ball.  All is quiet.

The Batter cracks the ball far out, splitting the scene and forbidding the quiet.  My instinct brings my nails to my teeth because my mind is nervous.  My mouth yells out his name because my heart has hope.  I watch the ball as it ascends from the wood to the wind, captivated by its grace and speed.  While I'm distracted by the object, the boys are able to scatter on the grass and prepare to catch it, unfazed by its majestic journey.

He catches it.  He throws it to first base.  He is success.

The crowd cheers, the coach claps, his father beams, and the other boys congratulate.  He just smiles, humble and nervous.  He saved the game, but he still won't acknowledge his own good.  He focuses on the mistake he made during the previous game; He'll take that error home and beat it into his brain 'till he never feels he'll be right again.

He saved the day, but with a single mistake, he can't feel he's enough.