I once saw a man standing alone in the middle of a baseball field on Easter morning.

I don’t remember why I was out driving; Mama probably forgot to buy vegetables to cook, or an ingredient was missing from the lamb. Something important.

That Easter morning after church was clouded by fog and the scent of muddy dew from last night’s rain. The melancholy mood and the slippery, almost icy road conditions should have sent all early morning strays scurrying home to take refuge in family and celebrations, but not the man on the baseball field.

He stood with his back to me, his red flannel and faded blue jeans a stark contrast on the green.

I had paused unnecessarily long at the stop sign, simply observing the man.

He didn’t seem to be looking anywhere in particular; his head tilted towards the sky and his body still.

There was something about the way the man faced the shadowy grey clouds, as if he were searching for something? It made me wonder if he was one of those eccentric believers in extraterrestrials, or maybe a bird watcher of some sorts. But the clouds were thick with unshed rain and New England was still stuck in winter, the birds still somewhat absent for the south.

And then I remembered that it was Easter, and the man was most likely praying in his own odd way. People were all different, I figured. We all had those special tendencies only we could understand.

I revved my engine to finally move past the stop sign, thank goodness there had been no cars on the road; I had been staring for several minutes.

The man never noticed me, but as I drove around the outer edge of the baseball field, my view of him shifted so I saw his front. My curiosity had me eager to finally understand what this man’s deal was, and I figured his eyes and hands could tell me what I could not solve on my own. Someone once told me that the eyes and the hands are the most telling parts of the body. I never questioned it.

I drove past slowly, my eyes searching for his.

The man’s eyes were blank. They were unfocused and swimming as heavy tears rolled down his unshaven face. His lips were parted slightly, wisps of his breath floating in the chilling March air. His hands, they shook violently, the movement obvious from the few meters that separated us. His knuckles were white, tendons bulging as he gripped onto this scrappy piece of leather.

And I remember the way this new perception of the man portrayed him in such a different light. I now saw that he was leaned back, his entire upper torso tilted towards the sky. I remember how uncomfortable that pose must have been for the man. How heavy it must have felt, not only physically, but emotionally, as if he were baring his heart and every inch of his soul to the heavens above. I imagined the man buckling to his knees in the classic, age old stance of agonizing lament.

I remember speeding away after that. No, not for the soft sobs that never quite reached my ears but regardless, stabbed my thudding heart. Not for the sorrowful streams the man never bothered to wipe away.

I left the minute I saw the baseball glove in his hands, but no one else around to hold a bat and ball.