galaxy42

Dust filled the air. He watched the playing field come to life with his friends and the children that he was told to consider enemies. Enemies for the afternoon, at least. The dust had settled from the air into the cooler full of well water. The lid had been damaged and thrown away five games ago. He imagined that the taste of the murky water probably wasn't far off from that of an iced tea made of feet. He sat alone in the dugout, watching the coach shout orders.

"Painting, probably," he said as the first pitch came. The coach ignored him. "Or maybe drawing," he continued.

"What?" The coach asked in a slightly less annoyed tone than he normally used when talking to the boy.

"I could probably be painting," the boy said again. "Or drawing, maybe. Doing something worthwhile, you know?"

"Then fucking leave," said the coach. "You're no damn good to me anyhow." He shook his head and turned his attention back to the game.

The boy's gaze searched the stands and found his father. He took a deep breath and dipped a dirty plastic cup into the dirtier cooler water and took a sip of the foot water. The crack of the bat brought his focus back to the game for a moment before he released it to his imagination again, thinking of all the things he'd rather be doing than failing to relive his father's youth.