Baseball Pie

Dave had only been standing there for a few minutes when he saw a small boy sitting in the dugout. He hadn’t intended to stop. But there was something about the baseball field that he could not ignore.

He had been on his way further down town. Heat was trapped within the confines of the many buildings that had seemed to sprout out of the ground and it made for a slightly easier night. A bench was his ultimate goal, but one in an area without cops to chase him away was a rarity. A vent with fresh, warm, subterranean metro air was more likely. If neither of those were an option, he would continue to walk.

Walking felt like the only freedom Dave had left. He had lost everything else: his home, his wife, his job. He could still walk. He could still escape, even if it was only a result of the meditative process of one foot in front of the other.

He had passed the baseball field many times. He had wanted his son to play there on the little league team the Spiders. Every once in a while he stopped to watch a game, standing at the outlining fence away from the stands. But tonight, he walked to the entrance and out onto the field.

Standing at the peak of the pitchers mound, Dave inhaled deeply and looked down the line towards home plate. A slight breeze blew a swirl of the dirt in front of the diamond plate.

The little boy had not noticed Dave until he was standing on the pitchers mound. He had a small brown paper bad sitting next to him on the well-worn bench. His grandmother had sent him home with a warm piece of apple pie, wrapped securely in plastic wrap. The bag was still warm. But he didn’t want to go home. The sun was just setting and his mother was just waking up. She would be gone by the time he got there anyway. He was used to putting himself to sleep. He missed his dad. He missed having someone to throw a ball around with. They used to go to the park across the street twice a week to toss a baseball back and forth. The little boy could do it for hours. On the weekends, more likely than not, there was a little league game going on when they got there and the little boy would run to the fence and watch the game, his dad’s hand on his shoulder.

That was a long time ago, or at least it felt that way to him. He hadn’t seen his dad in a long time. Now he sat in the dugout twice a week, listening to the cars pass as the sun sets. But tonight, he watched as a man, dressed in dirty jeans and an over-sized jacket, weather and life worn, slowly walked out on the pitchers mound and stared down the imaginary line to home plate.

The sun was almost completely gone behind the horizon that the city allowed. Dave appeared as a silhouette to the little boy. Dave turned to walk to home plate when he felt someone watching and saw the small human shape sitting in the dugout. They both remained still, watching the other. Neither was thinking about anything in particular, but each felt a sort of sad calm and neutrality settle over the field. Dave smiled to himself and walked down the invisible pitchers line.

He stopped on top of home plate and looked at the dark sitting figure, almost asking permission. Dave felt a little like he was intruding, like he didn’t have any right to be on this perfect field when he was who he was. The little boy grabbed his brown paper bag and placed it in his lap. He could feel the warmth of the pie on his legs, through the thin fabric of his pants. He looked down and shuffled his feet in the dirt, creating a small cloud of dust that settled on his shoes.

Dave turned towards the pitchers mound and took in the full expanse of the field. The painted white lines in the grass were faded, trampled by many feet searching for the next base. The dirt was in need of raking. The grass needed cutting. The field needed attention.

Dave felt a very slight tug on the sleeve of his right arm. Looking down without saying a word, his eyes met those of the little boy. Dave smiled at the little boy looked back out over the field, enjoying the warmth next to him. He felt another tug on his sleeve, just as light, timid. This time, looking down, the little boy was holding up his brown paper bag, staring directly back at Dave. Dave put his hand on the boy’s shoulder and shook his head. He took the boy’s hand and pushed his arm down. But his arm would not stay down and the paper bag shot up again and waited, a little higher than Dave’s waist. As the bag rustled, Dave received a slight whiff of cinnamon. The boy held the bag higher. Dave took it, feeling the warmth seep through the paper. The boy gazed up at Dave one last time, before smiling, turning, and walking away. He followed the third base foul line until he reached the break in the fence that marked the entrance. Dave watched him disappear and reappear as he walked past the thick trunks of trees lining the sidewalk. Finally the little boy turned the corner and vanished, leaving Dave alone in the silence of the settling night.

The man tightened his grasp on the crumpled brown paper bag and then brought it to his face, inhaling the scents of cinnamon, apples, and sugar. Very carefully, he unrolled the makeshift handle that forms on all brown paper bags and peered inside. The smells hit him full force and he could almost taste it. A simple piece of homemade apple pie. Dave rolled up the bag and held it at his side. He was overwhelmed. He hadn’t been overwhelmed in a long time.