I forgot how good it feels, the ball slapping the web.

The pop.

How do you do it at seven?

I only remember the end of the lineup, finally a hit, never running so fast, my stride stretching over first.

Never touching.

When I was you, but older.

My father’s hand, off my glove, the ball in my teeth.

But you kept throwing.

A tear or two, then back again.

Pop. Pop.