I’m not sure where it comes from. I suppose it has to be lived. Seen. Maybe it was my grandfather walking out to the field. My mother standing in front of the morning mirror. But I always felt it. This hope. It’s why, I suppose, a rainy day never stopped me from riding my banana seat bike to the summer youth ball field. Soaked and hooded, I arrived in my navy blue windbreaker. It was right in the name, being for the wind, I don’t why I imagined it would stop the rain. And who needed protection from the wind? 

With no alerts available, no cell phones, or internet, I sat in the empty dugout. The navy sleeves stuck to my skin like another layer, still full of hope that the rain would stop, the others would show, and we would play. I don’t know how long I would sit. Because of course, I didn’t own a watch either. I was saving for one from Bazooka Joe comics, but I had spent my wad on a plastic camera that I accidentally rode over with my own bicycle, so timeless, I waited. 

The rain eventually stopped. It’s ironic, I suppose, I stood outside the dugout hoping the very wind that I was to be protected from, would dry my jacket. I rode as fast as I could. No energy wasted from running bases, I imagined I rode faster than I ever had. My sleeves billowed. Puffing and drying. And when I had pedaled all the wet away up and down Broadway, I made my way past the railroad tracks and went home.

When my mother arrived home after work, she asked me as she did on every game day, not if I won, but if I had fun. Yes, I said, I had fun! 

Rain dampens my morning window. Hope remains.