My right knee was already throbbing before the second inning even wrapped up.
A Sunday afternoon on a chewed-up municipal diamond that hadn't seen fresh chalk since people were actually worried about Y2K. The outfield was more crabgrass and dandelion heads than grass, and the backstop was held together with rusted baling wire.
I took a seat on the dented aluminum bench, wiped a smudge of dried infield clay off my shins, and cracked open an orange wedge.
That first cold, acidic bite snapped me clean out of it.
For three hours, nobody cared about mortgages, unread Monday morning inbox counts, or the kid’s dental appointment across town. We were just eighteen guys in ratty high-top cleats and sun-bleached cotton, trying to convince ourselves our fastballs hadn't slowed down since senior year.
I pulled a flat pencil from the bottom of my gear bag and started sketching straight onto the cardboard bottom of the orange flat.
I wanted to capture the unpolished, unglamorous heart of the rec league: bold block numerals with slightly crooked drop shadows, cracked rubber-cleat silhouettes, and the thick, weathered lettering of a local lumber yard sponsor slapped across the chest. No high-tech performance synthetics. Just heavy, honest cotton made to slide hard, take a beating, and soak up the sun.
Play for the glory. Wear the dirt.
