Here is the single entry from last week when I asked you to write for three minutes about…
First base was somebody’s jacket in a yard. Third base was a Frisbee, across the street in another yard. Second base, a catcher’s mitt, and home base, an old plank of wood, were in the street. We used a tennis ball. When it was hit, it flew far. I always struck out. We had to stop to let cars pass. I remember the hollow sound of the aluminum bat hitting the tennis ball, and the ringing as the bat was thrown on the blacktop. Once I was second baseman, bored because nobody was hitting anything. Daydreaming, I forgot I was playing baseball, my glove carelessly rested against my shoulder. Suddenly there were shouts. The ball was hit. It came my way. Before I could react, it flew right into my glove, drawn to it like a magnet. Nobody minded that I hadn’t caught the ball on purpose. I didn’t mind being an accidental hero.