Jac Crocker November 14, 2000 AP 11 Contrast Essay The noon day sun beat down
on the red clay infield at Harry Harris Park. Runners on first and second
squinted from the glare as they watched the pitcher’s mound for the opportunity
to run. Advise for the runners as well as the batter was screamed and from the
stands of spectators.
Adding to the din of noise was the chant of the infield and outfield, “Hey,
batter, batter!” The smell of popcorn and barbeque permeated the air. Water
bottles emptied as players sought to stay hydrated from the suffocating source
of heat that surrounded them. The ball field was alive with action! The midnight
moon lazily lit the ball field.
The red infield clay reflected a rusty tone lightening ever so slightly at
the pitcher’s mound. The moon light on bases lit up their lonely abandoned
positions. Dew on the grass of the outfield announced the outer limits of the
game area. Silver spectatorsstands invited the moon light to bathe them. All was
still, stationary, secluded. The night blooming jasmine mixed with the salty sea
breeze and perfumed the air. Still all was so spectacularly serene. Yet, pause,
listen carefully, this is the place where hopes and dreams can be heard.
