I love the way grass smells. Even though a big whiff of it makes my nose wrinkle and I have to stifle a sneeze. I love the shade of green it is. I love how each blade goes in its own direction, even just slightly. I love the way it dances when the wind blows. But let's be honest, I'm not in love with grass. In fact I believe it is as it's finest when it is hugging the thing that I am in love with; dirt. Oh but not any kind of dirt. That beautiful red dirt that stains your clothes. That gets in your eyes in those moments when you scoop up more than just ball and in one swift and graceful second gather the ball and rip it into first just before the runner hits the bag. Even after a hot shower, and a really good scrub, it still manages to leave its mark on you. A tinge of orange is wrapped around your legs. But I never minded it. It just means you got the job done. Left everything you had out on that field, on that beautiful dirt.
Other than pitch, I can play any position. But I'm a shortstop. It's where I belong and it's where I dominate. There's not a day that goes by that I don't miss that diamond. That I don't miss everything about that game. It hurts sometimes just thinking about it. Thinking about what could have been. My glove currently is right by my bed and I've been dying to just play catch. Because there's nothing out there like the feeling of a ball flying into your glove.
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