Okay, here's a second stab at this. This time I stuck to the word count.
It was, the right fielder reflected, not a great day for baseball.
Maybe it was the snow flurries that accounted for the pitiful attendance on Opening Day.
No, the truth was the Detroit Tigers were a bad team. The window dressing – a few free agent signings, a pretty ballpark – hadn’t fooled the public.
Hoping to entice people to come, they had let a basketball player throw out the first pitch. He had even dispensed advice to the team as if he knew this game.
His game.
The veteran knew a little something about motivation. His body had started to lose its inherent ability. Still, discipline made it possible to make a difference.
The sharp crack of the bat abruptly brought the fielder out of his musings. He wasn’t going to catch it. He had been leaning toward center. Desperately he made a leap and slipped on a patch of frozen grass near the ample foul territory. He went down hard, but he had fully extended with his glove. The ball unerringly sailed in. He raised his glove and the umpire made the call.
OUT!
The center fielder trotted over. “You okay, dog?”
I’m not a dog, I’m a man.
The kid offered him a hand, helping him to his feet, and gave him a high-five.
The veteran pounded a fist into his glove, ignored the twinge in his left knee and willed himself to make it through his sixteenth season.
One hundred sixty-one more games to go.
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