Dragonflies and softballs

Last night the humidity drowned our lungs. As my teammates fielded grounders and pop ups and, later, I followed the bike path from Northwestern down to the lake and beyond gnats and other bunched together bugs got stuck to beads of sweat and facial hair. They would become attached and picked or brushed off with irritated sounds; like the sounds I'm sure they made, only inaudibly, when they got stuck. We would all just continue on, thinking very little of it afterwards.
I stood behind, as a catcher, offering advice to pitcher and hitter alike. As they swung and missed, swung and missed, then connected on the only good pitch to them so far. Some got discouraged as they dropped their bats and headed out into the field to swing at the dragonflies who gathered to feast. Scores zip, hovered, and dove through the encroaching swarms of bugs.
At several moments I became concerned about not wearing glasses. I thought the gnats and friends would meet my path, and become glued to my corneas; I would lose control, and hit the ground like being splashed by scalding oil. Soon there after I thought about other orifices, and decided to go home, stopping for a while to admire the hunting bi-planes as they maneuvered the air, perfect examples of how to use a three-dimensional space. And being smart enough to know when to dive in, right in front of us, and when to lay back and let them come to them.