OK. First of all, it's warmer out than I thought, and so I'm overdressed. Second of all, even with sunglasses on, I'm squinting. Thirdly, when a bird goes, poo-tee-weet, I direct my next thought toward it, thusly: "Petulance. We like the sound of the word petulance, don't we, birdie?" Then I pass three separate teenagers, still young, still forming, looking elastic in spirit like fourteen year-olds mostly do. I wish them the best. I begin to worry. They look so full of potential. As the third one passes, I sigh loudly in his direction, and he politely looks away, ensconced in his own hat like that. When I get on the subway, all the adults look vacant and spiritually sparse. At least there's one kid. At least he's scowling with his hands jammed into the pockets of his jacket and thinking what look like serious thoughts. At least he's swinging his little feet. His socks are black and white striped. His Adidas are the same ones my 25 year-old brother has. Welcome to opening day, little boy. Play ball, I guess.