Red is for stitches. Old-timers’ precise sewing of those first uniforms? Sewing someone up following injury? Or blurs flying by, turning but impossible to truly connect with?
Gold is for glory. Sunlight, shining through onetime devilish fish? Colors inherited from city to city? The symbol of coming first?
Green is for the outside. The field itself, big but covered well? The coliseum, full of emptiness? More old colors?
Blue is for loss. The sky, becoming less light over time? The shore, its monsters forgotten? Just our collective cliche, nothing more?
White cries out to be filled. Empty scoresheets, hoping to continue pristine? First, second, or third, still empty, growing restless? The skin between the stitches, not yet hit?
Pink, somehow, tries to fit in too. Token symbols, to be used just one weekend? New colors to focus our eyes, like the rhythm itself wouldn’t suffice? Or white blurring with red on pitches which speed by for strikes?