There is nothing better than standing in an open field, tracking fly balls being hit 300 feet through the air and a mile high. You have about half a second to analyze whether to go left, right, forward, or backwards, and after that you’ve committed to making an out or giving up an extra base hit.
Every ball hit my way would cause my heart to start racing, but it only added to the thrill. I would fly through the grass, my eyes never leaving that white sphere in the sky, and I wouldn’t take my eyes off of it until it ended up in my glove. After a couple “Good job 11!”s and points, I would throw it back into the infield, my heart still pounding, and wait for the next batter.
I always played the outfield because I could see the whole field, and move players around to be best positioned for the batter. Baseball has always been an art in my mind, with all nine players moving in sync to get the out. Everybody has a job to do no matter the situation, and every pitch has endless possibilities.
“If you build it…”
grass that goes on for miles
sticky pine tar on your hands
The crunch of dirt on your feet
The taste of beer and hot dogs
The smell of dirt and chalk
108 seams fly across the field
“…they will come.”