The lights were bright. The grass in the outfield was an intense emerald, perfectly framed by the brown dirt of the infield. It was a perfect June evening, not too hot and the humid summer having not yet arrived. Even the mosquitoes were taking the night off to watch baseball.
I was in the third base coaches box. The batter ripped a slow grounder foul down the baseline. I casually bent down and scooped up the ball. It was clearly foul by several feet. The third baseman called me an asshole and told me to leave the ball alone.
I gave him look of scorn and turned to throw the ball to the pitcher. My arm would not work right I stepped with the wrong foot and threw the ball like a schoolgirl. Everyone began to laugh. I turned to head back to the dugout and I slipped and almost fell. More laughter from the players and fans. I looked down and realized I had on my favorite pair of black wingtip shoes. The ones I wear to important sales calls. The leather soles had slipped in the dew-slick grass. The wingtips sure looked stupid with my cutoffs.
This was a terrifying dream. I think I liked the one with the oatmeal better.