Ball bouncing. Old shoes, scuffing across old cement. Clang. Noisy metal rim vibrating. Rebound chasing. Worn leather, sliding, not gripping, through my hands. Wishing it was gripping. Swoosh, weathered net embracing ball softly. Swoosh again. Gaining rhythm. Clang. Rhythm gone.
Alone.
Distantly, bat meeting softball. Dong. Little girl. Five. Head-to-toe gear. Dong. Over-eager father: pitching, fielding,...