Boys of Summer

September 22, 2025

Greetings from the empty lake,

I have a piece of popcorn stuck in my teeth. 

Yesterday was labelled, by people way smarter than me, as the last day of summer.  I know someone has to do it, draw the lines, make the definitions in order to settle petty arguments and give the stores a reason to change their signage as they tip toward the Hallowthankschristmas chaos.

And so, summer ends.  But while it is not the same, it is not broken.  I can still feel its wholeness even in the damp coolness this morning.  I stood on deck this morning in my bare feet, before the sun revealed the grayness and the strips of orange in the one maple tree who just couldn’t wait to show off.  I could still feel summer.  I ran my tongue along my teeth and found the shard of popcorn.

I didn’t know it was the last day when it started, which reminded me of how we rarely know when it will be the last of anything.  I was still having summer and then at some point in the morning some smarter person had to go and tell me it was over, so you better enjoy it.  It wasn’t intended as sarcastic as that but that’s how it felt. 

What made it easier in many ways was doing something totally out of character for me.  I went to a baseball game.  It wasn’t my idea, but I am grateful to the person who thought of it.  Always do the more interesting thing, my son said.  And so, we did.

Driving in the rain toward the diamond I thought of Don Henley’s song, and hummed ‘Boys of Summer’, picked at the lyrics I could remember.  Made me a little wistful. 

The baseball park was an enormous, living thing, which inspired a little awe and an excitement that felt like going to the circus when I was a kid.  When we emerged from the stairwell and looked down into the brilliant green outfield, it felt surreal, or too real, as if it were an exaggeration of a real baseball diamond.  Across the ballpark the horizon was filled with a giant digital screen that was devoted to our short attention span.

We wiped the last of the rain off the seats and sat down, surrounded by people wearing Tiger paraphernalia.  They bantered about numbers, about players, about parking, about rain. They traded complaints about umpires, about the league, about trades.  It was like I have felt being in church sometimes, surrounded by people who know more about what’s going on and are more excited about it. 

We filled most of one row, my daughter and her family, two of my sons.  It all felt happy and right.  The rain faded and the boys of summer played across the space below us.  We had a great view but high up in the rafters, so the players were reduced to tiny dancers in a silent ballet.  My daughter bought two giant bags of popcorn, which we ate like it had just been invented.

My sons explained the game to me as we went along, the irony of which wasn’t lost on me.  I won’t pretend to know the rules or strategy, but I got the main theme.  Later my grandson sat on my lap and I told him what I knew for certain: “That man is going to throw the ball, watch now, see? And the other man is going to hit it with his bat, see?  And that’s how you play baseball.”

There was a home run and strikeouts, there was the seventh inning stretch, and we sang ‘Take Me Out to the Ballgame’, and there was a rain delay, and then the sun came out and there was a chance but the Tigers lost. We had a beer and a ballpark frank. And the kids ran around the bases after the game, and Finley got a baseball and he loves it so much he wouldn’t let it go.  And we had popcorn.  We were all boys of summer.

Summer here is filled with campfires and fireflies and the sound of people giggling at the edge of the water, delighted at what children made in the wet sand.  It is sweaty, there are mosquitoes, there is frizzy hair and sand where you don’t want it.  There are sunsets for everyone and sunrises for those with the inspiration to get up and go find them. We eat corn on the cob, we cook out on the grill, the windows are open. The days are longer and there are more colors, and things grow and the air smells rich with living.

Here is something else, the first line from Dylan Thomas’ poem written almost fifty years before Don Henley reminded us:  “I see the boys of summer in their ruin…”  The boys have not curled and fallen yet, but I know it won’t be long.

When the season changes we see it, feel it, know the next season will insist on more clothes and less time outside. “We summer boys in this four-winded spinning…” Thomas wrote.  Somewhere people are packing away their summer things.  Folding up the big umbrellas, sweeping the sand out of the tent, packing away the big cooler wherever they put it so they won’t forget, but always do.  They are already folding up the cotton and sandals and pawing through closets for heavy brogues and woolen things. 

I felt the popcorn last night, after I brushed my teeth.  I might have been tempted to work at it with my tongue, or, God forbid, floss.  But I wasn’t. 

It’s lighter now, so I can see the pine litter on the grass, already shading things orange and brown.  A family of deer just walked through the yard, wearing new deeper brown and gray coats, the fawns still playful but now looking mature without their spots. 

I’m lucky I have these memories of my favorite season, and so summer is with me still.  The hiking and running, the morning cup of coffee on my deck while the sun turned the world coral, and the beer on my deck as the sun turned it coral again.  I have the memories of every person I met for the first time, and the last, and all those I love that I spent time with.  I have all those reminders of the season.  And I can feel that piece of popcorn in my teeth to remind me of that lovely afternoon with people I care about, watching the boys of summer before they are gone.

Hope this finds you with those Wayfarers on,

David

Copyright © 2025 David Smith