The smell of morning dew faintly covering the fresh cut grass of the field lingers in the air.
The sun begins to climb the once night sky and the birds wake from a slumbering sleep.
Reaching its highest point, the sun marks noon and the vendors set up there stands.
Little boys dressed like there fathers play there imaginary games pitching balls and running bases marked by tress and toy trucks spreed throughout the yard.
wrapping his small fingers around the ball he tosses it to his father.

It was his father, a child at heart, who got him his first glove and taught him how to play the game.
Who would pull him on his lap to watch two opposing teams battle it out for nine innings straight
and shared with his son his dream. These little boys would grow up to be there fathers.

Tugging on their mothers arm they walk into the stands and find their seats. Standing proud a cap is taken off and a little hand is place over his heart.

The game begins and vendors start vying for attention
"hot dog" , "hot dog get yah hot dog" they yell as husbands spill mustered on their jerseys and start asking for a beer.

There wives sit and stare some at the children in the field taking on the rolls of their favorite players, others at and grown men beginning to whimper as a player strikes out.
And then there are the few brave ones that wear there husbands numbers and suffer through the game silently , only having eyes for their player and there team.

These women common in appearance sit and stare as he pitches the first ball of the game or dives to the right to catch a fly ball, at her man standing up to
bat and at her loves disappointment in the game , because there can only be one winner.

she is the silent player of the game,the trainer who gets him up for his morning work out, who messages his back ,
who cleans his wounds.

The fan who listens to the replay of a game she already watched, makes posters filled with the phrases of encouragement, and constantly provides her
faith in him.

she is the red-shirt who cannot play the game , or go with the team every time they leave, who merely sits back and waits for her team to come home.

She is the towel boy who is with out the glory of the team or the sweet taste of satisfaction.

She is the silent player of the game who watches her son turn into a man , turn into his father who takes on the game and the dreams all over again.

She is the couch who holds his hand after an injury and confirms his dreams and tells him to never give up.

She is the the player to pick him up if the one in one hundred chance fails him and he is left with no option but to look for
a different career, the one to pick up our all American boy and make him an apple pie, to give him the remote when a game is on, and let him encourage his child
in reaching his once dream.

A player of the game who rarely steps onto the field, one who never throws the first pitch but is always there to catch
what the game throws at her.

she is the wife of a baseball player, a mother of a baseball player, and a constant player of the game.