I love being a baseball home, the basket by back door specific for balls and gloves—designated by our matriarch—and how, being boys, we often fall short in order and organization, even with guidance, and how our gloves are most often rest by whichever door last used to go outside and play, symbol and sign of active boys.
I love the wooden mound on our front lawn, a broken up Homeplate grown in with the grass, and the dead-spots and divots marking differences in pitching distance from nine-year old to grown.
I love the nets in the backyard nearly all year long, and how matriarch calls upon us to put them under awn whenever a rainstorm comes. I love a bucket of balls with tee beside, coming home to the sound of metal ping or the crisp of leather’s pop, when the sun goes down and it’s been a day but there still enough light and time for catch or to help with a swing—to live a moment with my sons.
It’ll all be gone soon enough, so I love it now. Window of life and time, I love it while it is.
