Ah, yes, it's humid, hot and I can hear the sounds of chatter in the distance that can only mean that a softball game is in progress. The metallic *PING!* of the aluminum bat against the fluorescent green hide of the ball confirms it. From the presence of men wearing various colors of T-shirts, it seems that a small church league tournament was being played.
Both of the park's diamonds were in use and there was a healthy smattering of wives in attendance, cheering on their men. The spectators sat on bleachers or camp chairs shaded by trees. The man in the top picture had stopped with his little boys to watch from a left field bench, taking a break from their bicycle ride around the neighborhood.
There wasn't a scoreboard in sight but while the game was informal, you could tell from the postures of some of the players, long-remembered habits and drills learned as school boys were being lived out; in their approach to the plate for their turn at bat, the way they trotted around the bases, how they scooped up a ball and threw it to a baseman, it all came back to them for the afternoon. And for a while, in the hot summer sun they were living their dream.