A puddle between Home and First
The lights were on. The rules were agreed upon. The teams were assembled. There in a small town south of Moncton, on a wet diamond by the train-tracks they played baseball. The rules were altered, the teams were under prepared and the ball was large but the spirit was there. That's what counts. That's what makes baseball a different sort of game. The ghost. When you're in the bottom of the 6th, down by nine and the end of your roster is hitting the plate you can feel it. Haunting the gloves of a game that seems to be losing steam. Like a train. You can still win, sometimes the dead return we just can't recognise them...
