The soles of my cleats are pressed upon the evergreen mattress that is the outfield, this heavenly anti-stress, as I am living the dream of so many St. Louisans — at Busch Stadium, playing baseball, patrolling the former workspace of “Jimmy Baseball.”
Suddenly, a ball is walloped. It’s surely headed over the fence, perhaps landing upon Freese’s Lawn. So I pivot toward the warning track … only to realize I have abominably misjudged this thing. I sprint in with a Vince Coleman fervor — and with Vince Coleman watching — diving forward to try catch the fly ball.