He was a boy, a baby really, not more than a few months old, still in diapers, a pacifier dangling from his mouth.
She was wearing a baseball cap that collected in its palm a bundle of blond curls with some red highlights.
He stood at the plate, legs apart and knees slightly bent, his bare toes solidly sinking into the drenched dirt.
The rain fell in puddles, there were no boys left in the field. She stood in the center of the mound ready to sink to the bottom of a river to throw him a ball. The sweat and dirt on the girl’s knuckles were eating away at the already beaten leather of the baseball. The ball was dry at its core, heat-dried from the girl’s touch. She was fired up but bathed in the pouring rain. Her bare toes tore away at the earth beneath.
Poised on his tiptoes, the boy balanced a very large wooden bat.