We were in the park. It was a Sunday in July. Someone had suggested a barbeque. So there we were the four of us, blankets, potato salad, bratwurst and watermelon. We had tried to find a spot with just a little shade but the park was crowded. The only decent space left was near the baseball diamond. Jim and Alice wandered off to try to find some ice cream. We were lying on our backs making stories out of puffy clouds. We were in to the third chapter of a torrid bodice ripper between a plumber and a lady lawyer who worked for the DEA. That’s when you suddenly sat up saying “I got it, I got it”, a new angle on the story. Then smack, it hit you, full on in the face. A slicing foul line drive hit by some muscular eighteen year old. It almost lifted you off the ground. You fell back stunned. The skin was split and a bruise was rapidly forming. When the EMT’s arrived they asked you, for some reason, to count to ten before they would let you go.
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