“Come on,” she said. “We should stop for ice cream or something on the way back.”
He nodded. “Sure, sure. In a minute.”
She sighed heavily and tapped her hoof.
He showed no signs of motion.
With another sigh--this one a little less potent--she flopped down onto the bench beside him.
The rest of the spectators were clearing out. They were all on their way to get ice cream, she thought. Or lemonade. Anything to undo the damage or sitting in the sun for hours upon hours.
And, yet, they all smiled.
She looked at him.
He was smiling, too. Down at the empty pitch.
She chuckled. “You’re weird.”
He shrugged. “I can live with that.”
“C’mon, tell me.” She elbowed him gently. “Why do you love it so much?”
He said nothing for a moment. Just stared down at the empty pitch, the ghost of a smile on his face.
“I think…” he said, slowly and carefully, letting the words roll over his tongue. “I think to truly love something, you have to love all of it. Win, lose, or draw. Past, present, or future. Highs and lows and inbetween.”
She thought about that.
A breeze blew over them, ruffling their manes and threatening to take the ball caps off their heads.
But they stayed firm.