Reading

I've spent a large part of the last three days reading this book.  It's a whomping 475 pages and I am galloping through it at a high speed, yet keenly aware of every word.  There is no skimming with this one.

I want to know what happens to Henry, Schwartz, Pella, Owen.  I want to read another marvelous sentence.  I want to see how Chad Harbach pulls in all the threads for a satisfying ending. 

Last night I dreamed about playing catch.  Zipping the ball to someone else.  Hearing the hard smack of the ball against leather.  And I ran, too.  I love when I have my running dreams.

When I was younger, I threw hard, almost too hard for the first basemen awaiting the toss.  In our town, there were at least 15 softball teams.  No mamby pamby shit either.  We all could play.

When I am reading this book, I lose my place in the world.  I am not 49.  I am not 100 pounds over weight.  I am not achy and slow, tender in so many places.  I am young again.  Red dirt rings my ankles.  My hat fits snuggly on my head.  I am crouched over, staring at the batter, hoping -- always -- that the ball comes my way.