I remember summer evening like this. I remember the cool grass in the afternoon when the sun went behind the clouds, and when it reemerged, feeling like God’s own breath on my face.
In the little town where I grew up, lazy summer afternoons were spent languidly throwing the old tennis ball for our dog, Spivey.
She locked into this game of fetch as though nothing else in the world held more urgency, and I barely engaged in the act.
Until I heard the car, I saw Spivey run into the street on a collision course with the car coming up the street at a break neck pace. Literally.
Spivey didn’t look up, but stayed after the ball, narrowly missing the vehicle.
I dropped to my knees, near tears, when Spivey ran up to me, ball in mouth.
Palmer throws a hard pitch to second, Mark at second turns it around to third, but, like a Buick doing 40, it can’t stop Martinez from making it home.
That makes the score 4-1 as we enter the 6th inning.
We’ll be right back after this.