Waving Not Drowning

His lips move almost imperceptibly. It's difficult to make out what he's mouthing as he sits on the top bench of the bleachers watching rec league coed slowpitch. Sad eyes, beautiful skin, somewhere around 28. It's a hot, humid, oppressively sticky late summer eve and he's wearing a navy blue hoodie over a button down shirt, dark blue jeans, and innocuous sneakers, not too flashy but still sorta hip. He's clean, healthy looking, with good hands. He's perched, sitting very still; contained, but not tense. No air of anxiety. He could be high, maybe medicated. Every time she walks back from the plate to the bench they make eye contact. Hold it a beat too long. It's his eyes. Blue, clear, curious but not in a disarmingly strange way. He's watching the game, attentive to every pitch, every swing, hit and miss. When he looks away it's not with embarrassment or discomfort. He simply shifts focus while staying completely present. There's a languid, felin...

"Call it! Call it call it! Get on it- yup, yup, yup, you're there- you're there! No! no no no no- it's dropping, it's short! Damn! DAMN." Roger watches helplessly from right field as the pop fly drops mere inches in front of Cary's feet, then bounces and rolls right through Cary's legs and heads toward the ravine. Roger whips his head to the left involuntarily as if to dismiss the image. He clucks his tongue in disgust and frustration and is just short of throwing his glove to the field. A bit of a drama queen. That's why he gets stuck out in right field, especially against teams with  few to no lefties or pull hitters. Just to rile him up. Dennis makes sure to shuffle him around every so often so that he doesn't catch on and threaten to leave. They often come up short fielding a team so that's why the others keep Roger around. But boy is he loud. And cranky. Hostile, even. Physically threatening at times, which is really not appropriate fo...