That wily-looking old fellow there? He's a World War II veteran. I know this because on the back of his black ballcap, there's a velcro closure with yellow sewing that spells out "World War II." It also says "World War" on both sides of the brim, and there's a big American flag on the crown surrounded by the words "World War II Veteran."
The World War II veteran sits seven rows in front of me at the
minor-league baseball game, in an aisle seat. Two seats away, there's a
large man in a blue ballcap that says, simply, "Navy." Did he serve
too? Hard to tell. After all, he could just be a fan of the Midshipmen
American-football team. For as many people as there are out there, it sure is a lonely world. Each human is as special and individual as a snowflake, but it often seems that we're all just part of one big nondescript snowbank. Some collapse under its weight and become prisoners of themselves. Others fight isolation with stranger measures: branding clothing and skin with their accomplishments, their desires, advertisements for themselves. Does it really have to be this way? Can't we all just be friends, or at least acquaintances?
In the bottom of the 4th inning, a nondescript man in a blank light blue T-Shirt walks up the aisle between sections 21 and 22. He spots the World War II veteran and stops suddenly in front of him, offering an clumsy half-wave to get his attention. I can make out two words: "thank you." The World War II veteran shakes his hand quickly, awkwardly, and looks away. In less than five seconds, it's all over: Mr. T-Shirt continues up the aisle.
The World War II veteran turns to the left, cocks his head slightly and twists his brow. As in, what the red hell was that? The Navy man returns the glance, shrugs, and goes back to watching to game.
