I will save 700 soda-pop proof-of-purchase labels this summer, and I will mail them to a P.O. box in Nebraska so that sometime next December, I can giddily go to my mailbox and find inside a Tampa Bay Devil Rays souvenir key chain.
This summer I will spend all day at the beach throwing a football in flawless spirals and running tight post patterns around old men with metal detectors. I will never go into the water, and I will never make it past page 7 of James Michener's Hawaii.
I will stand on my front stoop this summer and watch kids plead "One more inning" when their mothers call them to wash up for dinner.
And when the sun goes down, I will park on the highest hill overlooking the city and tune in faraway, 50,000-watt radio stations, and I will listen to ball games drifting in on a breeze from the West Coast. And when the games fade out, I will lie back on the hood of my car and look up at the stars and listen to the crickets.