A baseball field is like home -- a big, dusty, noisy, open-air house that is fraught with possibilities and tension. Somebody will be the hero, and somebody will fail. There will be hope and success, trepidation and persistence, error and precision. The grunt of the umpire -- sometimes it's hard to tell if a ball or strike, ya gotta watch the hand. The swish of cleats through the grass, the thunky ping of the bat, the thump of a fastball in a mitt, shouted instructions in the field. HOME HOME HOME, they yell.
We watch the forecast and prepare for the worst it brings. April is iffy, May almost as bad. June brings the sweetness of summer and July the heavy heat. But for the boys in baseball uniforms, you know where they'll be, in all but the most dangerous weather -- out there on the field, HOME HOME HOME.