Baseball Fans
I was riding my bike around the neighborhood stocking the street libraries with books and pamphlets. Nothing like working as an unofficial librarian at nine in the morning on a Saturday in spring.
A high school baseball game was underway in a park stadium. The stadium was a stone's throw away from a homeless encampment dotted with dilapidated RVs, sedans and pickups.
I stopped riding and took in a few pitches. I noticed a few fans sat in the stands behind home plate. A few cheers sounded in the distance.
Some other fans caught my eye. Some of the residents of the homeless encampment had set up lawn chairs just outside the home run fence, center field to be exact.
I knew they were residents of the homeless encampment because I recognized them. They were some of the same people who occasionally played pickup basketball and a few still had some moves.
Not much really happened on the diamond as I watched. That's why I never got into the game as a kid, although I played it for years. I do recall it being the best sport to participate in and daydream at the same time. You can't do that in tennis or football or basketball. Okay, maybe long distance running allows for daydreaming or cross country skiing.
A kid ripped a shot into the left center gap. It rolled to the fence. Outfielders charged for it. The runner was chugging for third. He slid in safely for a triple and bolted up pumping his arm with a bunched fist. A few scattered claps from the fans. Some came from the homeless fans. I saw them talking and knew they were reminiscing about their old baseball days. Men of their generation all had them.
I mounted my bicycle and rode away. A drizzle began to fall. This was Oregon. They'd keep playing.
Baseball on a Saturday morning in a public park. I dug that. Homeless people in lawn chairs watching the action. I really dug that. Maybe hot dogs and beer were showing up later.