Opening Night

By Peter Bowden

The lights buzzed on just before dusk, humming like bees waking in an early spring garden. The outfield grass glowed a rich green, trimmed tight as if expecting royalty. It smelled like cut clover and clay and the start of something. The players stretched their arms along the foul lines, tossing balls back and forth like promises made to the coming season.

Fathers and sons, grandmothers with popcorn, kids waving foam fingers. The crowd rose when the anthem played, hats over hearts, eyes glinting with the reflection of flags and memories. There was always someone who remembered a player long gone, a game that slipped away, or the way their father’s voice sounded when he said, “Watch this.” The first pitch cracked into the catcher’s mitt like a firework. Summer, not yet here, whispered that it was on its way.

In the press box, an old man scribbled notes with hands that had written box scores before color television. He glanced up and saw the crowd lean forward. He smiled. It was always like this on opening night—every game a story, every inning a chance to begin again.

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