In time, weeds would overtake the lines and faint indentations would mark the bases. But that August day, Jordan, age six, demanded, “Let me bat.”  Her teen boy cousins laughed. Reluctantly, Mark waved her over and showed her how to choke up on his bat. He nodded to Gary who scratched himself, spit, tugged his hat three times, stepped off the mound, re-assumed his position, and then did an elaborate wind-up before releasing the ball in a slow pitch arc.

      Jordan, meanwhile, crouched over the plate, squinted her eyes, and prayed to God, “Don’t let me miss.” She almost relaxed in the middle of Gary’s shenanigans. Focused, determined, the girl honed in on the ball, stepped into her swing, and felt a reverberation as aluminum smacked the sphere. Tiny tingles shimmied up her arm. Mark hollered, “Run, Jordan, run,” and it took a split second for her to drop the bat. Her hands were tight and the palms red from the grip. She shook out her arms, the elbows in a phantom bend from supporting the bat, and then churned down the first base line. Ignoring the infield chatter, blonde ponytail flapping, she willed herself to not turn to look for the ball. Brian grinned, pretending to block first base. The smirk faded as she roared closer. “Hey, Paul, hurry up. Throw the ball.”

      Jordan collapsed in full stride. She sprawled face down, her bloody head cradled on first base. Brian shouted, “Paul… Jesus.” He knelt and touched her back. A red stain soaked her pink t-shirt. Not a flinch or moan. He stopped Mark from turning her over. “Get Mom, this is bad.” The cousins huddled, shuffled their feet, and murmured their fears. “Is she dead?” A siren wail announced the arrival of paramedics, somber faces, tubes, and oxygen.  Paul vomited on the field and couldn’t stop crying, “I’m sorry, Jordan.”

      That evening, after police hauled away the blood soaked first base and ball Uncle Bill surveyed the field. Paul watched from an upstairs window. Graying head bowed, the tall lean man gathered bats, gloves, and balls to stow in the shed. Paul sobbed as his uncle hefted one, tossed it in the air a few times, as if testing its power. He flinched when Uncle Bill threw it against the shed. The bang echoed. Then his uncle retrieved the ball and heaved it as far as he could. The man’s cry tore Paul’s soul and he wept anew for the loss of his curly haired cousin, of innocent summer days, and of the joy of throwing a baseball.