I recall my uncle, my mother's brother, took me to a baseball game when I was a boy. It was Springtime in the City, and my arms were warm from the Summer-like sun. I swam a lot then, I don't swim much anymore. My uncle, my mother's brother, drove me to the game in the City, and I remember approaching over the long highways between Connecticut and New York. The difference between tree-lined New England streets and parks to the suburban hubbub of Pelham, of Bronx, of Flushing. A great towering of gray castles looming in the far horizon under skies of orange and pink and indigo blue. The stadium was half empty, we were early, and we put our feet on the seats in front. High above the field, we ate hot dogs and talked baseball. My uncle, a crackerjack infielder, had his career sidelined when he took a line-drive to the forehead. ...said he'd taken his eye off the ball for a split-second. That was enough. I never took my eye off the ball. We watched the game, the Mets were terrible but we rooted for them anyway. Cheered every hit and threw popcorn at every out. Shouted encouragement from our cheap seats miles in the sky. In-between innings my gaze would wander wander toward the West, the sparkles of the distant skyscrapers made me wonder wonder who I would become. The ache of every possibility to come to a boy on the cusp of manhood, the ache of not-knowing. Hoping... and never knowing. Was anyone ever so young?