The first game of the first season for the "ten and eleven years old" league. We're down 5-3. (Or is it 6-5?)
The sun has gone to bed, but we don't have a choice. Cool breeze from the river makes me forget that it's spring. It is April isn't it?
The other games have ended, so their lights are snuffed out. We're the only game left.
It's the bottom of the last inning- two out, two on. I'm ready to fold up my chair.
Who is this pitcher? I don't remember seeing him before. Are you sure he's eleven? He's my size!
Finally, the last out. Mothers chatter like hens, complaining that the umps weren't fair. The fathers pick up the aftermath and slowly walk to the dugout.
"Next game is Thursday at 7:30," says the coach.
Starting the car as the boy hops into the back seat. "You did a good job, son. You swung even, but you need to put a little more into it."
I whisper to my wife- "what was the score?"

wide awake
bugs chase the headlights-
going home