It was hot out for an evening ball game, but Lew didn’t have time to think about the weather, or what was being said up in the booth. The ballplayer part of his brain took over, processing everything around him in an orderly queue of stimuli. The lights surrounding the stadium turned dusk into day, creating the illusion from his viewpoint that the infield dirt was actually a reddish-orange. A slight breeze rustled his uniform sleeves, and his nostrils were momentarily assaulted with the greasy smell of hot dogs being cooked up in the stadium’s concourse. And of course mosquitoes pestered him. That surprised him, as he always assumed the Major League had somehow found a way to keep the annoying bugs at bay.
His insides became taut as the first pitch of the game was smacked out to the left-most portion of his territory. He ran for the ball hard and stretched out his left hand, oblivious of Gordie coming toward him. The two just missed colliding as the center fielder nabbed the rocket near his left shin, leaving Lew’s mitt outstretched and empty.
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