I don't remember if making the baseball team was difficult because I was young and everything seemed possible then. It has been a long time since I have been this close to a playing field, for my only experiences as of late have been in front of the television. I can smell the dirt of the infield, and it appears to be so smooth, but in reality, it has many defects, defects totally unseen until a ball strikes its surface, revealing craters, rocks, or slick spots which cause the ball to bounce or ricochet strangely. The infield can be a very dangerous place at times. The infield stops drastically where it meets the outfield.
Brown dirt meets green grass, very green grass.
When I wasn't pitching, I played the outfield. The feel of one's feet cushioned by the thick grass, and the aroma of freshly-cut grass stays in a ball player's heart well into his old age. I recall the sound a bat makes when it strikes a ball, starting a strange ballet in which the outfielder breaks in the direction of the ball in flight, soaring across the green ground, spraying grass with each footstep and dives, glove outstretched, to catch the ball. I still hear the chatter of the players egging on their pitcher to throw strikes. Their cheeks are full to overflowing with sunflower seeds which are meticulously sorted, seed from hull, without the use of their hands.