The weather report didn’t indicate it would be hot. I had expected a comfortable day with the temperatures in the low seventies. If the weatherman had been right where I sat was an exception. I found myself constantly wiping my brow despite it being shaded by the brim of my cap.

“Whew,” said the man next to me, “it’s going to be a hot one. Hope those players are hydrated.”

I noted the man’s somewhat younger age than mine and couldn’t help but note the change in vocabulary from one generation to another. My generation would have said, “I hope they drank plenty of water.” But baseball had bound our two generations together for the day. Two strangers now sat beside each other exchanging observations of particular athletic abilities of various players on the field. “Number 14 is a hitter. He’s got real potential,” he told me. “The kid at second base is a pretty good fielder but he needs to work on his hitting.” My education continued until the start of the game.

The visiting team jumped to a lead in the first inning. To say it was not the pitcher’s day would be an understatement. Two wild pitches that careened the ball off the backstop invited two batters to move to first. Two others were walked. The visitors were one run ahead before the home team pitcher had thrown the first strike.

The manager walked out to the mound. He talked with the pitcher while nervously scuffing the toe of his shoe back and forth over the raised mound. The talk continued until the umpire stepped out to hurry things us. The experienced manager, who had stalled as long as possible for his relief to warm up, nodded to the ump and motioned for the relief pitcher to come in.

“Here comes a mean fastball,” said my companion. The new pitcher was good. In short order he retired the side.

It was the bottom of the first and the second baseman to whom my friend had attributed an inability to bat stepped into the batter’s box. He was shorter than his teammates, but he pounded the bat on the plate with determination. The pitcher let loose, he swung. He actually didn’t hit the ball as much as it ricocheted off the bottom side of his bat. The ball dribbled out toward the pitcher. He picked it up and flung it over the first baseman’s head. The first baseman scampered back to the fence, grabbed the ball and with full force sent it in the direction of second base where the batter was now headed. The second baseman placed his hands on his hip as the ball sailed over his head into left field. The batter heard his coach yelling and flew toward third.

Now the batter was flying, his feet a blur as he prepared to slide into third. The left fielder grabbed the ball and, as he cocked his arm to throw, it slipped from his grasp.

At the insistence of the third base coach the batter did not slide but continued running at full pace toward home. With the impact of his foot on the plate the game was tired.

As the batter walked back to his dugout he passed us. I leaned over the rail and said, “Nice job.”

“I know,” he said. “That was the first time I’ve hit a homerun.” His ten year old smile reflected a new confidence.