You kept score by hand —
pencil tucked behind your ear, knees balancing the card, the names and numbers slowly filling the page.
By the eighth inning, the paper was smudged with sweat, thumbprints, maybe a little ketchup from a rushed hot dog.
It didn’t matter.
The card wasn’t for display.
It was a record of being present.
Buddhism
Perfection isn’t presence.
Pr…