First prose-ish thing I've written in ages. (see note at bottom, please)
I don't know if it's the smell of freshly cut grass, the "ping" of batting practice, the shadows over the outfield during the late innings of a tight game, the excitement of a crowd, large or small, the radio broadcasts, or the smell of sunscreen away from a pool that mean summer. It's not the heat; California's too warm too often for the appearance of sum to signal lazy summer days. Every year, without fail (not counting the strike years), baseball is the constant in life. March spring Cactus League play leads to an April start - the turning point of the year. The summer pattern begins to manifest itself in April, complete with Daylight Savings Time, the reappearance of fog banks over the Bay, and Giants' baseball on the radio. By June, the season is in full swing, schools out, and Little League, Babe Ruth League, any league imaginable, is winding down and forming all-star teams, and planning tournaments, to play in or to be dragged to, while fervently clutching a radio so as not to miss an out of the latest Giants-Dodgers feud. Summer isn't a time, it's a mind set; from March to October, thanks to the boys of summer.
I guess I'd call this a setting sketch.. actually, just a sketch. I've been stuck on prose for ages, and I've decided it's time to stop ignoring it, and time to actually do something about this little "problem" I've been fighting. I need to know what works, and what doesn't, and why. I can't analyze my own work very well at all, so I'm finally caving and asking for help. Thanks, all. Also, there isn't really a point to this other than to help me out of my slump.
