(Admin, I post for Laurie and Blair)

I have spent the last seven years in a "civilized" country. Imagine my surprise at finding myself, awake, at a Torrington Twisters game one Thursday evening in the summer.

The greenskeepers were watering the dirt between the bases as the players acted out a harmless game of catch on the sidelines.  The sun spilled its golden oil across the grass;  I painted the shadows a soft purple.  Teams organized on their sides and a crackly PA played the national anthem.

We had parked our car just outside the gate.  We were surprised about how easy it was to find a place, until the first foul ball cleared the net and dropped into the lot, hitting metal below.

Behind us, the staff of a local camp for boys sang silly, bawdy songs, peppered with "rap" during the game.   A dozen 11 year-old-girls, the undefeated champion baseball team (in their class) in Torrington, taunted the counselors from their seats at third base.  I hadn't seen such unbridled joy in a long time and had a hard time keeping my mind on my work.

College baseball is different from the majors.  It is more of a process.  It is learning that a pitcher doesn't just pitch.  By being the short stop doesn't mean your glove doesn't have a hole in it.  It is about learning the game.

We sat in the first row behind the net between first base and home.  I could hear the pitch hit the leather of the catchers mitt.  When we'd attend a Seattle Mariners game in person, I could hear that sound on the radio before the sound waves would reach the stands.

I could see the crouch of the catcher -- folded up like an origami figure as he awaited that ball.  The batter lifts his foot ever so slightly before he swings the bat.  I try to remember all my human figure studies as the action transpires just a few feet before my eyes.

We take pictures, too, but I love trying to catch the movement in front of me.  Elbows up, bat, as if suspended by a thin string from the sky above.

Two bats broke on Thursday night.  Skinny little bat boys, wearing helmets made for men with many more worries, dash out to pick up the pieces.  The camp counselors would sing "bat boy, bat boy" from behind us each time the urchins would dart out to retrieve another ball or bat.

Our life is so complicated, jetting from here to there -- six big trips since January on the plane, and suddenly I find myself: on a wooden bench, watching baseball, in the capricious summer light.

Laurie (text) and Blair (painting) PESSEMIER
"Diamond" oil on canvas; 11 x 14"