Called on Account of Darkness

Cynthia Kim

Mary Daley, a loyal fan of the Cooper City Little League, understood the value of calling a game (even a close one) on account of darkness. "No sense playing when it's too dark to see the ball," she always said. "The field will still be there tomorrow."

There was a game most every summer evening in Cooper City. Mary never missed one. Her big old Victorian overlooked Cooper City Memorial Field; her back yard, the perfect spot to park a lawn chair. She cheered for the boys and girls on both teams, even when the littlest ones ran to third base after whacking the ball off the tee.

She cheered for nearly forty-five years, until, as often happens to women of a certain age, she fell and broke her hip.

"No sense keeping the old Duster. You won't be driving with that hip," said son William, visiting between business tips.

"You'll love Golden Heights. It's much safer than being alone in that old house," said daughter Natalie, up from Boston for the weekend. "Aren't you tired of that racket from the ball field all summer? And those kids! Every time I call, you've got a bunch of them at the door looking for Popsicles and candy."

And so Mary sits in a stiff blue chair by the window of her darkened room in Golden Heights and watches the end of a sunset, while somewhere in Cooper City a crowd cheers the last play of a game that is about to be called on account of darkness.

Copyright ©2002 Cynthia Kim. All Rights Reserved.

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June, 2002 Issue #74

256 Words

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