I miss the thick green grass of Virginia’s Spring.

I’m grateful for the patch of green I have, here in the middle of this concrete megacity, but I miss the wide open lawn where we gathered to hit baseballs every spring and summer.

Oval-shaped, canopied in deep shade by a dozen oaks at the edges, our green space in Virginia was a long field open down the middle. A real hitter’s paradise.

Spring after spring we dragged out the duffle full of balls, two or three score, and set up against the biggest oak of all. I threw ball after ball, correcting the boys’ stance, adjusting their hands, lobbing hittable pitches just to hear the bat go ‘ping!’ and watch the ball sail over my head.

The bag emptied, we began our own version of the Easter Egg Hunt.

Some balls rolled into the hedges behind the oak. Others into the thorn bush. Still others, their roll absorbed by the grass, hid from us all season or got whacked by the lawn service, the mower going Growl… Pop!

We refilled the bag to start all over again, diminishing returns, a ball or two a day lost to the grass.

I’m grateful for my patch of green here, 14 floors below, so near at hand we could zip-line down. We still pitch and hit, and some future day I’ll miss these times, too.

For now, I miss the tall grass of Spring in Virginia, and the East Egg Hunt that was sure to ensue.

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