It is early March.

The sun is up. Beating down.

Spring is in full swing.

The birds are singing.

The grass is green.Damp from the morning dew.

The fresh cut grass evokes a smell of life.

Dirt finely tilled. Bright burnt orange. 

Lines rechalked. White as printing paper.

Bags repainted.

The team streaks across the field. Ready to play.

To win.

All waiting for a chance.

To prove themselves.

The ball is pitched.

The anticipation fills the air.

The crowd gets quiet.

The ball echoes a 'thud’ when it is hit.

The batter dressed in blue pen stripes, Dashing down the line.

The team rushes to stop the ball.

Small marron blurs in a sea of green.

As the team goes on about a routine.

Looks as if it's been repeated a thousand times.

Like an orchestra playing their final song.

The ball is easily fielded. The shortstop flings the ball.

HIs smoothness, like a Violinist with a solo.

A blur whizzing across the green diamond.

The Batter racing towards the bag.

The first baseman outreaching, stretching, exteening to his highest ability

His foot attached to the bag. Almost like he glued it there.

The ball makes a loud satisfying “clap”

The batter's foot hits the bag almost simultaneously.

The first basemen checks for the call.

Sweat running from his cheeks

Like a fermata. The playing stops.

“OUT!”

Playing resumes.

The ball, like a battle, tells memories of the past.

The red stripes like blood.

The resounding ‘crack’ of the bat.

Gunshots of the past battles.

Pride with every step.

The team, eager to play.

Excitement.

Emotion.

Emanates of their play.

The team who came together through the game...

Starts to break.

The Game.