My Throne

I'm borrowing a prompt tonight from my friend Betty (Betty Blogs):

A combination of two writing exercises: Try to identify your earliest childhood memory. Write down everything you can remember about it. Rewrite it as a scene. You may choose to do this from your current perspective or from the perspective you had at that age AND/OR Write a 200-word description of a place. You can use any and all sensory descriptions but sight: you can describe what it feels like, sounds like, smells like and even tastes like. Try to write the description in such a way that people will not miss the visual details. (I also played around with present tense)

***

I suppose my nose must have twitched as I assumed a spot on the sideline. Dust and grass clung to the air like a heavy humidity, and I remember that those drops always forged red, raised bumps when the allergist dotted me with manufactured doses of nature once every year. My mother inserted needles into my arm each week to combat the attacks though, so maybe the shots worked better than I can recall. Or maybe I was too busy bursting with pride to ever take notice.

Several times a week, I got to sit in my spot--a little past the out-of-play line in the deep left field. I didn't wear a tiara or sport a fancy dress, but that spot was my throne. From there, I could touch the sky. I could see the expanse of the outfield and the sea of grass that stretched beyond it. I could gaze at an infield in the distance, and grow enchanted by its speckling of light cocoa fairy dust. And I could inhale the delicious fumes of freshly cut grass, sweaty leather and stale chalk. Most importantly though, from my spot in left field--with my tiny little monkey buried into my chest--I could sit and admire my king. I could sit and admire my father.

Dad defended the outfield like a lion. He tracked, chased and caught every potential threat, covering more ground than anyone else who took the field. He hustled with every crack of the bat, backing up bases, eliminating gaps, and launching balls into the infield with precision and authority. And he brought me there to watch it. I got the honor of trotting with him to the outfield. It didn't matter how tired his legs were from running bases, or how many extra innings the game demanded. Every single time he went out to the outfield, he took me with him. And I cherished every collision his cleats made with the earth as he carried me to my most treasured place in the world.

Each spring when the green seeps back into the earth, when the sun starts burning through the winter, and when the dust loosens enough to fly, my mind retreats back to the ball field. Back to the center of my universe. Back to the place where I laughed and dreamed--where I yearned to grow up and be just like him, my lion, my hero.