Uh, oh. Here it comes, a tiny, fast-moving speck arcing high in the air. It is hard to see against the cloudy sky but it is there, headed directly at me. The imaginary coach who nags me from the back of my brain shouts, “This is it, kid. Go big, or go home!”
“It” is actually a baseball, a fly ball clobbered in my direction by my grandson, James. He is taking his cuts during hitting practice with his (real) coach. I am stationed in centerfield, assigned to track down and gather up the stray baseballs James smacks into the outfield.