I am standing at home plate, ready to hit one out of the park. I glance up, see hot dogs passing hands, beers being emptied and way too many voices in the crowd screaming. The distractions are heavy and burdensome, and I have to put down the bat and go home to crawl into bed to shut it all off. I want to pick up the bat and hear the crack of bat and ball, but I am choking, choking on the visions of the ballpark and the overplayed conversations.
Tomorrow, words of hope may come, but today there are too many words to choose from, too many voices in the crowd, too many players on the field and too many balls coming my way. Tomorrow, always tomorrow and I'll lift the bat and hit one over the fence.
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