Home Run

The moment was bright and golden, like summer sunlight. We pulled off caps, wiping foreheads and setting wooden bats aside to sit down. There was the popping of bottle caps, toasts declared, bottles raised. We chatted animatedly, full of vigour at our success: ahead of us were graduations, then jobs.

The sun dipped and sank low while we laughed and joked. Presently, I reached into my pocket and found an silver watch that had not been there until just now. It was polished with the long passage of fingers across its surfaces, a shine of long and loving use.

I was a little surprised to see it, though not excessively so. My old man had explained, pressing it into my palm the day I had left home.

"You'll know when you want to use it: those times you just need a few more minutes. Be careful, mind: only three times before you pass it on, or you'll pay dearly for the time you stole. No, no. I've had my time. Now it's your turn."

I hit the button at the top of the watch and flipped it closed. I understood now.