That moment at Anne Lamott’s writing workshop after you’re asked if you want to move your seat from the back of the room to the front.
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He’s in his twenties but he looks younger. With an expressive face and easy smile he seems approachable. He’s a little shy, and sometimes hides behind his hair.
He doesn’t really have game. He doesn’t need it. Even grown women want to do more than mother him.
On the mound his steady eyes are barely seen beneath his cap. He’s a serious competitor. When he’s in his stride and throws he’s got game. And the batter knows it. Better be in top form to face the ace.
The humid heat messes with his hair. He doesn’t like it. He likes it cool. Dark greens and cloudy skies. He likes his things lined up nice and neat. When everything’s in order he can relax. Be mellow.
He’s a sweet-natured guy. Humble when he could be vain. He’s earned it but he doesn’t have to buy into it. He dreams about being a musician. Maybe later. After. In the meantime he’s already a rock star.