Somebody keeps a baseball field looking perfect. There are no bases and no baselines, nor is the pitcher’s rubber evident. It’s September, after all, and unless someone has a fall season in mind, I imagine this place, north of Towson and Baltimore, will just stay that way, empty but inviting. Somebody keeps it looking perfect, as if there’s hope that 20 boys and girls will suddenly show up, or that a spaceship will land at night and allow aliens to try the American game they’ve been watching from another planet. I imagine they’ll bring their own lights. They’ll bring computer-generated bats and balls and gloves they designed and manufactured from videos and photographs. They’ll be gone without a trace the next day, and the groundskeeper will go back to doing his work, cutting grass neat as Augusta and grooming the infield. The work will be done when winter comes, and the months pass into another year, and soon another spring and another round of hope that American children will again lord over the diamonds.

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