Rookie                                               for Meg   I was good — damn good. I could bat for power and for average, my arm was strong and true, my glove as quick as a bullfrog’s tongue. Hours in the cage, days on the grass — oh, I knew I was good, all right. But days grew to years, and shadows spread across the field like stains. Waiting for the call-up, waiting to hear my name in echoes, waiting out the rain delays, hamstring pulls, bad hops — waiting, sick with waiting — I was no sleek, skinny kid anymore. At forty the knees played tricks, the back went bad — high time, I knew, to rid myself of games, of dreams.                                                That’s when you called. The Yankees, you said.                                        And I said, Play ball.     © Michael Fleming New York, New York June 2002