The Ballfield

It’s my place.

It’s my sanctuary and battle field.

Where getting a ball thrown at you is normal, and getting one hit at you is expected.

Where people establish identity by a number instead of a name.

Where home has nothing to do with where you live.

Where people fully capable of speaking, rely solely on signals.

Where tiny little seeds are considered a balanced meal

and the last thing you’d do with a cup is drink from it.

Where common language consists of ‘whatda ya say’ and ‘atta way’

with every sentence ending in babe.

Where the opposite of safe is not dangerous.

Where getting dirty is finally a good thing and a spank on the butt constitutes respect.

Where an alphabet without the letter E would work just fine.

It’s the only place where succeeding 3 times out of 10 can be considered good

and 4 out of 10 great.

Where 9 players can receive the ball in their glove, but only one is called a catcher.

Where a series of 90 mph pitches and balls that travel over 400 ft is still considered

a slow game.

Where running away only to return in the same spot at which you started at is an honor.

Where crazy routines are both followed and respected.

Where rituals and superstitions have never been taken more seriously.

Where time is not measured by minutes, but by opportunities.

Where power and finesse finally reach equality.

Where a suicide causes celebration and stealing is encouraged.

This is my place.  Many dislike it and even more don’t understand it, but none the less it is 

my place.  I believe it was originally named the diamond due to its obvious shape; however

it could have just as easily been called the crooked square…

I call it the diamond because as promised, it will last forever.