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Ancient Artifact
my heels dig into the dirt
elbow up, eyes ahead
watch her hands
count the wind-up
first, second, third, then home
first, second, third, then home is all i have to go
breathe
play through the pain
run even as her fastball hits you in the gut
and you trip along the bases
and bruise your ribs dodging a tag out
wince and you're benched
fail and you're done
freeze and the crowd of eyes watching will all know what you've been told before
useless
pathetic
Grass-stains on knees are the least of their worries. The
ball is lost in the hay again. Earlier this spring, they
mowed a large section of this hayfield into a baseball
diamond and then adorned it with torn up bits of T-shirt
carefully arranged to mark out the bases. The infield is
cropped short but the outfield is truly out in the field. The
“hay” is really just a tangle of clover, some sort of
domestic grass and wild strawberries. The game itself is
doomed from the beginning. All attempts to keep the ball
in the infield wind up with the ball in the tall grass. It's
just a matter of time before this comes down to picking
berries rather than looking for the ball.
childhood...
nothing ever measures up