Dreamer

     There in his back yard the boy swung the bat like a pro. Nobody pitching a ball to him. No ball at all that I could see, just a boy with a bat, swinging it like a star, like Joe Mauer, Kirby Puckett, Rod Carew, long gone heroes he's never seen or heard of, but practicing the swing, the stance without the ballet of a ball heading his way, getting the swing right before he encounters a ball.

    Practicing.

    And dreaming. 

    Another form of practice, of getting ready for the moment, the opportunity, the hurtled orb of possibility arriving when you are ready, when you most expect it: proper stance, eyes wide open and on the ball, ready to swing at the right moment, prepared for the crack of bat on ball, the slight thrust backward as ball meets bat, then rises in a perfect arc as you circle the bases, one, two, three, and home.

    That's how he'll get there, to ahs and cheers, and his mother, father, brother rising in the stands, shrieking "Go, go, go Boy!" and he does because he practiced in that narrow back yard, because he dreamed, because he believed in himself, in himself and the dream.

    He knows you never let go of the dream.