From the stands where the fathers sit, through the gate at the dugout's edge, onto the field of play sewn with bases and chalk, masks and gloves, stopwatches, bats, chest protectors, shinguards, pine tar, resin, helmets, seeds, and snuff, through a maze of blue hose legs cleated, poised and powerful, walks the batboy. Nine. "Unied"-up with stirrups showing, weathered cap, silver chain. Serenely by the watercooler he takes his place. When each furious threat has ebbed; no pitch, no swing, no steal, no slide, no throw, he works. –EFQ

 

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