Essays

Baseball season

The breeze from the Ashley River carries a rising murmur of voices throughout the ballpark. The organ plays, the crowd rises. “Play Ball!”

It’s baseball season in Charleston.

Amid cries of “Peanuts, hot boiled peanuts” and “Hot dogs, get your hottttt dogs,” one team takes the field. The other team lines up to bat.

The crack of a bat, and hands clap. Kids race for foul balls. In the outfield, flags snap in the wind as gloved hands reach overhead for fly balls. In the stands, foamy cups of beer tip as fans leap to their feet and cheer.

Everyone is in motion. A constant stream of parents, their children in hand, walk to the bathrooms, then to the concessions and back to the bathrooms.

Home runs are smacked, and kids in ball caps wish they were on the field. Then a long, bouncing ground ball and a tap on the bag. He’s out.

A high fly ball, two players running backward. Call it! Call it! But both miss, and the crowd lets out a long “awwww!”

A 10-pelican flyover signals a change in wind direction. Storm clouds edge closer. Two innings to go. Then rain, and a scurrying crew covers the field. Some folks go. Others stay.

Then the Friday fireworks burst like bright marigolds through slanting sheets of rain. Bang! Ooooh! Aaahhh!

The crowd cheers when the game is called, and our team wins. We splash through puddles to our cars, soaked to the skin. The parking lot slowly empties, and we join the line of taillights, reflecting red on wet streets.

And we’re happy, because it’s baseball season in the Lowcountry.

JOCELYN CHABOT

Charleston