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.

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 some of the most dilapidated RVs I’ve ever seen. They were never moving again. They looked like they’d gone through the Battle of Stalingrad.

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 play pickup basketball. I also knew because, well, there is now a familiarity with their appearance and demeanor. That’s not a judgment or slander. It has come from observation and interaction.

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. Can’t do that in tennis or football or basketball. Okay, maybe long distance running allows for daydreaming.

I mounted my bicycle and rode away. A drizzle began to fall.

Baseball on a Saturday morning during a Pandemic. I dug that. Homeless people in lawn chairs watching the action. I really dug that. Maybe hot dogs and beer were showing up later. There was something uniquely American about this, but I was somewhat at a lost to define it.