Baseball Stories (14)

 . . . her little hands tremble under the weight of the game winning ball as she hands it to him for an autograph.  "It's been a long time since anyone has wanted a piece of my name," he says as he winks at her father and accepts the memento.

Having penned his name just over the scuff mark left by his effortless swing, the one-time hero hands the ball that had brought them together back to his smiling admirer.  Turning to her father he admonishes, "Now, don't be afraid to toss the ball about when she's a bit older.  Baseballs don't belong on a shelf or tucked neatly away in a box full of memories.  They need to be handled often and shared among friends.  They are at home in the sunshine.  They are meant to be played."

With the tip of his hat he is on his way, the evening air grown still except for the echo of their parting footsteps.

Heading home in separate directions each reflect on the setting day.  He with a new appreciation of all he'd become and she of her laughter in the way life was to be . . .