Five bucks.

The outfield is freshly mown, the infield sprayed and dragged. Perfect. I find few things in life more satisfying, more inherently flawless, than a manicured baseball diamond, even a ragged little rec job scratched out of the earth on the edge of town. The boys of both teams seem in awe of it as well, each one taking care to step over the bright new chalk along the first and third baselines as they move to their positions.

In the third inning one of the other dads, drunk, yells to my son that he’ll give him five bucks if he hits one over the fence.  Aiden ignores him or else doesn’t hear him, although I find that unlikely.  He stays disciplined, taking two pitches before shooting the third back through the middle, a screamer over second base. Easy single. I’m actually thinking double but the centerfielder makes a play and knocks the ball down, hitting the cut-off as Aiden makes his turn. A nice piece of baseball by all parties involved.

The five bucks of course weren't coming his way, homerun or no. In any case he doesn't mention it, then or now.