That crack.

It’s a sound like no other. When the ball makes contact with a solid wooden bat it’s a special music.

That sound represents so much: comaraderie, freedom, hope and summer.

We gathered every night at the park down the street unless it rained. Some of us snuck out of the house, some had parents who didn’t care and some didn’t have parents at all.

But we were all there at sunset.

That was when the air changed. It was as if a subtle scent of danger wafted through the dusky air. The lights in the park were stamped with the corpses of bugs and nubs of petrified spitball.

The dirt of the diamond beckoned for us to skin our knees and elbows while chasing after this symbol of our childhood freedom; 108 stitches of red waxen yarn, a polished hide scuffed with memories.

By the end of a game, we had all played our best and our worst, our clothes evidence of sweat, dirt and frequently a heat-of-the-moment punch in the nose.

Those who snuck out of the house would change into fresh attire, wiping free blood and grime at the water fountain whose supply merely dribbled forth on a good day.

Bloody noses and lips were marks of a game well played and rumbles were forgotten as laughter echoed off the bleachers and we all dispersed.

We never missed a night in those summers.