The Crackle

That crackle of a bat

That smell of freshly cut grass,

A little hint of a breeze.

Hearing small silent footsteps,

As players creep

The pitcher starts leading his hip towards the plate

Seeing everything with a focused lens

In the zone

A simple slap of a hand

Running towards the leather that you call a mitt

That crackle of a bat, hitting

The little 5oz white ball caressed with red laces

running every which way

Holding,

Tightly spinning on its travel to the sky.

Higher,

Higher,

As if God himself is holding it gently in his hands

All of a sudden it halts at the peak of its destination

Remembering it was alive.

Then it comes back to reality

As if its journey was coming to a finish

Descending

Cutting the air in half on its path back to Earth

The sound of footsteps,

As if someone was running to safety.

The smack of a glove,

Not of hand but of excitement

That little white sphere with red laces

Held like a newborn baby in the hands of a fielders leather mitt.

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Hearing those small silent steps

Becoming loud  as if their cleats were handcrafted from cement.

The smell of freshly cut grass

Drawn in by the playful breeze.

Quieting all the surroundings and sorrows

Filled in with loud yelps of excitement.

Because,

This is a game made for man but played by kids who

This is Baseball.