It was a butterfly. A yellow butterfly. One of nature's most delicate creatures. In and of itself there was nothing spectacular about it. Its kind can be seen in any garden setting in summertime. But this was no ordinary setting.

As it fluttered in a seemingly erratic pattern, up, down, round, now here, now over there, it gave every appearance of being lost, of being out of place. And it was.

Beneath it was a green sward. Overhead a blue sky. All seemed right. But the green sward was not grass, and the blue sky was hemmed in by a circle of cement, punctuated on one side by glass windows. If it was ever to rejoin its natural habitat, the butterfly would have to fly higher and higher to escape entrapment.

In ordinary circumstances, unbothered by external factors, no doubt the little butterfly would find its own way out. But there was nothing ordinary about what was taking place all around it.

First was the noise. People noise. It was deafening. To the young boy of seven on his first visit to such a venue it was unreal, bewildering, almost frightening. To the butterfly it was overwhelming. It penetrated every little fibre of its essence, upsetting its inborn flight guidance systems, and causing it to panic. How was it to find its way out, to get free from the human pandemonium that assailed it from every direction, to find sanctuary in silence, to recover its bearings, to be free as nature intended?

On the artificial green grass in the center of the cement circle, a little group of humans was performing a bizarre ritual. First they stood still. Then, from time to time they broke into feverish activity, running here, running there, some in a consistent pattern, others in single dashes, and the people watching would shout and roar and clap, some to cheer, some to jeer, some to boo.

It was all very confusing, to the butterfly, to the boy, and to his grandfather it brought back memories of the time that he was seven and his father had brought him to see his first professional football match, in a land far away.

Now they were watching a professional baseball game, in Toronto, in a huge stadium where 48,000 and more fans were seeing the New York Yankees playing the home team, the Toronto Blue Jays.

Somehow it was all fitting together.

Then came tragedy. The batter at the plate had his bat shattered by the pitcher. One of the pieces hit the plate umpire in the leg, felling him instantly. As the umpire lay motionless, the crowd fell silent. It was a silence that lasted as officials and medical personnel tended to the wounded man. As he was carried off the field, the fans gave him a sympathetic handclap.

When the game resumed, the butterfly was nowhere to be seen.

Best of all, the home team won.

And the boy was happy.

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