Boys were men and men were boys that night.
Early on we sat, more than casual onlookers, but not all in either. Longing to believe, but too afraid to invest.
Years of heartbreak will do that.
Each pitch brought our bodies further to the edge of our seats, and our hearts one beat closer.
To what we did not know.
The gray specter of rain hung in the air like an anvil, eager to smash the moment to bits, and end our fairy tale unhappily ever after.
The rain came, but too late to carry out its sinister plan.
By night’s end we stood transfixed.
And changed.
A childhood dream come true.
Joyously spent, we lingered long after. The scattered pale beams of the streetlights cast their patchy glow on the now empty lot, just a schoolboy’s throw from where it happened.
Feebler arms launched a soggy tennis ball back and forth through the wet night, cutting the air.
Like a windswept balloon.
Bare hands fumbled, a bit less graceful than the men before.
And older.
Light conversation. No need for more.
We felt like heroes because they were heroic.
We became lore because they became legend.
History will stop short of calling it perfection.
We boys know otherwise.
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