The Ball player

The game began and Dood was standing in his bright red baseball uniform across the playing field, clutching his brand new mitt the team had just issued them with his left hand, while pounding the bottom of his right fist against it lightly, perhaps to keep himself afloat and calm, for the excitement and anticipation was too high he even almost thought it was unbearable. He stood there in great anticipation, hands on his knees, on the farthest right corner of the field (for he played right fielder), too far actually, that if he did not focus his stare hard enough or squint his eyes in the proper angle, it seemed quite impossible for him to see the tiny white dot across the field which had caught his attention the moment he arrived in his position, but of course from where he stood, there was nothing else to see except that spec of dot, for everything in all direction was a wide yellow plane of field made out of an imperceptible composition. For even if he had tried to kick the ground with his spikes to examine the unusually yellow ground, he found that it was unfamiliar, too unfamiliar infact that he chose not to mind it at all. And even when he had tried to tilt his head up (he tried once), he could only see the same wide yellow plane of fields composed of that imperceptible substance of sort, in the sky, and thought to himself that surely if he had laid down in the ground and looked up the sky, it would be exactly an identical perspective when he was standing up.

He was grateful for that spec of dot during the course of the game. For if it wasn't for the tiny spec of white dot, how difficult it would have been with him alone and far from where the pitching and batting and the stands were held, and how dull and unentertaining the game would be then for him, now that not a single ball had come pass his direction. And so days had passed before he even started to truly wonder what that little dot could probably be, or mean, and thought to himself perhaps it was the only person or thing that is visible from where he stood. It could probably be the second baseman, Aloysius, whom he had not seen for quite sometime now. The last time he saw him, he recalled, they slapped some high fives and engaged themselves in some quick banter of sort about how the other team had mistakenly chosen them for an opponent- what a bunch of losers- he thought as he put up a wry grin. The memory with aloysius was quite blurred, considering the length of time it took him just to jog from where Aloysius was (second base) to where he's standing right now (right field). It must have been a week! he thought, now with his right fist enclosed inside his glove, his shoulders propped up and his body stiffening in anticipation, as though in a few seconds from now, a ball would pass blazing in front of his field, while his eyes continued on a surge of frantic searching, searching the horizon for an incoming fly- any incoming- but there was none.

So days had passed and nothing had changed, and then he had started to feel a little disappointed that he still had to be part of any play. Then gradually it happened, that from a totally energetic and devout right fielder, who since birth, had known nothing else but the joy and the dream and goal of being able to play for their hometown team, had now been left out by the entire game- alone in his own little field- and so it was only inevitable that he now started to entertain the idea of taking a short quick nap. For the actions, or more appropriately, the entire game, he had noticed, had been far from him since he had taken his position, too far actually, that not a single drive or pop up fly ball had shown itself across his limited jurisdiction- the yellow plane horizon in which he had been staring enamorously and soulfully for the last couple of weeks- waiting, anticipating, and sometimes, even praying for the action to come. So now his eyes was starting to hurt from lack of sleep, and his head too! So he thought a quick rest would do him good. Besides, he thought to himself, the coach wouldn't mind it at all and would understand him, it is actually more beneficial for the team, because they probably would be needing him most effectively during the last few innnings, when the game is most important, and surely he had not had any form of rest for the last couple of weeks and it is only proper. Moreover, for days he had been standing in that same position, eyes on the horizon, hands on his knees, alert and in absolute focus towards the on going game, for he could not afford to let a single ball pass him, it could end his entire career- and he could even count the few number of times he accidentaly or, out of necessity, had closed his eyes or veered his look elsewhere but his field of jurisdiction.

The decision was not easy for him, never in his entire life would he even dream of letting down his team. But he needed a quick nap badly. So reluctantly, perhaps because his body was ailing too and that he couldn't possibly go any further without any form of sleep, he decided to take a short quick nap while standing up, and re assured himself that if the action would come, he would hear the sound of the fast approaching ball and that it would wake him up and he'd be on his feet right away to catch it.

The days turned into months and months into years and still he had not seen a single ball come even close his horizon. This startled him and made him question, and even made him cry for some lonely nights when the little spec of dot, whom he had always assumed to be the second baseman, had denied him even the faintest trace of light for him to devour upon. His mitt had started to decay, and his uniform, out of the dirt and the imperceptible yellow substances had already deformed it, almost like a rug. He himself had grown a lenghty beard and his hair had become corrupt from all the long hours under the wide plain of yellow horizon, basking under it with nothing for his mind or body to engage upon except for that tiny white spec of dot, whom he had always assumed to be his team mate.

But years had passed and he had grown to be an old old man. He had began to sleep more frequently,for his playing fervor and anticipation too had declined drastically due to an extreme lack of action, and had started to feel quite hopeless and utterly incapacitated as a player. But his love of the game kept him afloat and calm, and his love of the game never faltered, not even once from all those years. If the game would only show him that he is part of it then he would feel much, much better, he always thought. It was just that the game, he had occasionaly judge, had deprived him of any of its goings-on, even the faintest light of a play, and had neglected him for all his worth as a right fielder. But these absurd ideas did not bother him and did not even make him angry or furious, his hopes was still as high as it has been from the beginning when he stood his post, hands on his knees, eyes on the horizon, though on some lonely nights he had thought otherwise- but this, he never came to realize (or denied to acknowledge) out of respect for the team and his team mates.

His love of the game was so deep and so powerful that even at this point, when he had lost much of his physical capabilities, at this point when he could not even stand up on his own, and his hands had began to lose its sensation, and when he thought his legs wouldn't even budge and his back started to ache due to old age, and when the intervals between his breaths had started to shorten fast, and that only his perfect vision had provided him with a bit of competence, competence which he had during those great years of his career. While an occasional sporadic blinking and wincing and writhing in pain deprived him of any form of sound sleep, while lying down the yellow ground on his side, the worn out mitt stucked under his head for comfort, the bright red uniform now had become an oak gray, staring firmly in desperation now and then at the tiny white dot, which he had assumed to be the only sign that the game was still going on. And so he held his breath for the last time as his eyes wandered amorously towards his yellow horizon, still waiting, as the pitcher walked slowly to the mound to throw his first pitch of the game.

congrats natapos mo! pasensya na wala tlgang magawa eh kakahiya naman sayo. please feel free to play critic grammar cop basta wag mo lang akong sasaksakin wehe
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