I ran through Central Park today. The park was in the glorious Monet-at-Giverney-like-bloom. The spring so beautiful that it makes the slush and filth of a New York winter worth every slip, splash and slide.
Little League teams were on two of the six ball fields on the Great Lawn, skinny teenagers in tight polyester uniforms playing in the perfect weather. There was no recession on the fields, no wars in three countries, no global warming. There were just boys newly playing an old game.
I watched for a few minutes and was right back to my own childhood, playing on the same fields. I wondered if boys today taunted the same taunts I did.
"Ya swing like a rusty gate," when a batter swings and misses.
"Aunt Jemima makes a better batter," when a player whiffs.
'We want a pitcher, not a glass of water," when the hurler is wild.
I watched the boys for an inning. Their moms and dads cheering in a desultory manner, their brothers and sisters playing on the sidelines. The sunshine bright, the wind gentle and the songs of birds audible over the wails of sirens.