Eamus Catuli

An entire year boils down to this one day.
This one game. One pitch. One swing.
Crisp air breaks through the jerseys and sweatshirts
as the scent of even colder beer rises above the lower deck.
The shadows of the players stretch into the fire scorched ivy,
long dead from an enduring summer of day games and double headers.
With every 60 foot, 6 inch throw, 40,000 people inch a little closer to the edge of their seats, gripping the arm rests until the dark green paint starts to chip.

Swung on belted, deep toward left, that’s a no doubter!

With the hop and the trot, a sensation flows through the air,
Past the box seats, through the reserved and into the upper deck.
Everyone has the realization, but not a single soul dares to say it.

Simultaneously the crowd rises to their feet,
acknowledging a year's worth of stretching singles into doubles and crashing against the ivy to make that 3rd out.

A buzz emanates from each and every seat, from the dugout to the rooftops.
No balls, 1 strike. Man on first. No one attempts to breathe.
Two fingers held in the air by many, emphasizing that is all that we need.
All that the year has come down to. Just 2...more...outs.

Double play ball! Second base one! Over to first!
Look at that mob scene on the turf of Wrigley Field!

This is finally it...the culmination of all of our hopes, all of our doubts, and all of our dreams,
As we all look over the right field bleachers onto the blue and white letters that read:



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