Day 15

American pastime. Beneath light-blasted skies on a warm September evening, we join the growing chorus of criticism, shouting to the batter that we could do better, that he shouldn't have swung at that last pitch. Profanity and grunts of anger fly faster than the curve ball that struck him out. I am one of them, Bud Light in hand. We, the spectators, know better, could play better, could hit a home run every single, damn time.