An Athlete’s Home
Home is where the heart is. If this is true then, my heart belongs to a special place. Not just any place, but a place where the chalk line connects the grass to the dirt, where three bases signify my safety, and a green fence is my brick wall.
When I pull around the corner my view fist goes to the baseball field not the softball field, but that’s what makes it so unique and special in its own way. It’s sort of like a home, with a fence for a wall and trees for the roof. Different positions on the field, like first and third, are the rooms of the house. Each one is different and special in its own way. At first glance, I know a game was played on this very field not too long ago. The chalk lines are worn and faded, the dirt is stirred, and a long lost batting glove is left behind.
I make my way to the home dugout and take a seat on the bench. The dugout has a foul scent, a mixture of body odor and dirt. I open my bag and take out my cleats. After I put my cleats on, I look around and see that we didn’t do so well in picking up. There are paper cups surrounding the trashcan and scattered across the floor. When I start to walk around, my cleats scratch the pavement and make a nose as irritating as nails on a chalk board. This noise seems to bother other people more than it bothers me. It’s almost as if I have become immune to the ear piercing noise. I then kick my bag under the bench and make my way to the field. As I take my first step onto the field I can feel the dirt grinding against my metal cleats with every step I take. If I listen closely I can actually hear it, like two pieces of sand paper rubbing against each other, fighting one another. I take a moment to stop and just look around. The chalk line that closes in the right hand batter’s box has completely disappeared. The chalk is now a mixture with the dirt. Right in front of the pitcher’s mound there is an area of harder and darker dirt, left from dumping water. As I pick up...
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