If Life Is Fair

I saw two old gentlemen at the park today. Playing baseball. At 10:30 in the morning. They pounded their gloves between pitches and loped around the bases as spryly as they could; laughing at each other for misses and errors. One was tall and spare; bald on top with the wrinkly face of a basset hound. The other was short and plump with a full head of thick, white hair and the round chubby cheeks of a youth. I wondered if they had known each other long? If when, they were kids on the playground, they made bets about who would go bald first. Who would be the first to blow a knee? I hope so; I hope they have been friends for years and years, through all sorts of turmoil and joy. I hope they have had many occasions to say, “put it over the plate,” and “hey, batter, batter.” I hope they have had Christmases together and long days at the beach with their wives and children covered in sand. I hope life has been good to them, as it should be, for old men who play baseball at the park. Laters.