Saturday morning—
sun on the field,
grass still wet.

Chairs unfold.
Coffee steams.

“Here we go.”

 

Big jerseys.
Little legs.
Hats too low—
ears popping out.

Jetty tugs his down.

One helmet… sideways.

 

“Spread out!”
“Ready position!”

One boy squats—
like a frog.

 

Then—
they all do.

“Not bad!”
“Let me see you!”

They wiggle.
They fix it.

Almost.

Jetty peeks back—

his grandfather grinning.

 

“Batter up!”

Swing.
Miss.

“Atta boy!”
“Watch the ball!”

 

Swing—

tap.

The ball dribbles.

 

“RUN!”
“RUN!”

Jetty runs—
arms flying—

laces flapping
left,
right—

dust rising.

“Good hustle!”
“I love it!”

 

CRACK!

“Good swing!”

She’s already running.

 

Tap.

Another hit—

He stands.

“Go!”
“Run, buddy, run!”

A mom jogs in—
guides him to first.

“Safe!”

 

Later—
quietly:

“I’ve never played baseball before.”

 

CRACK!

A line drive—

he runs to second.

“FIRST!”

 

He turns—
runs—

FIRST!

Hands up—

champion.

“That’s my guy!”

Jetty looks.

Grandpa winks.

 

POP!

A ball drops—
right into a glove.

He stares—

the crowd ROARS.

 

“Get it!”

A grounder.

He scoops it.

Holds it.

“Throw it!”

He doesn’t.

 

Then—

laughter.

 

“HOME RUN!”

Everyone runs.

First—
Second—
Third—

HOME!

 

All at once.

Dust.
Voices.
Feet.

Jetty runs—
laughing now.

 

“GOOD GAME!”

High fives.
Missed.
Try again.

“Nice job!”

 

Snacks open.
Juice boxes pop.

“Popcorn?” someone says.

No one hears.

 

Helmets stay on.

One still spinning.

Families gather.
Pictures everywhere.

 

On the sideline—

a jersey:

JETTY FAN
a day
a time
a place

 

Grandpa kneels.

Arms wide.

“Good game, Jetty.”

 

A hug—
big,
full,
the kind that stays.

“Good hustle.”

 

Sun lower.

Voices softer.

 

But still there—

under everything—

the rhythm.

 

“Ready?”

“Ready.”

 

“Here we go.”