After the last softball game I played in high school, I had trouble leaving the field. I knew it was over. I knew I could never go back. So I waited for everyone to leave and I walked out there, the lights still on, the fog forming in the outfield.
I walked around the bases with my arms out, soaring like a plane, trying to capture a moment, all moments I'd lived on that field: all the balls I'd ever caught and thrown and hit, the way I'd smell my glove just before getting ready to field the next ball, the times I'd fucked up, the times I was a hero. The day Mom pulled up in the middle of practice and I knew my grandpa would die that night. I walked around the bases just kicking up dust until I was home.