As I turned over in my palm
that glossy little planet
I was going to hand my son
I was wondering how
it could still cost the same
as when I was has age.
Around came the brand:
Rawlings. Made in Haiti.
Like those poor city kids
I'd heard have no idea
that milk came from a cow,
I'd never known before
where baseballs come from.
They were always there
in the stores in bids, stitched
tight as uncracked books,
each with its tiny trademark,
Made in Hell.
We'd test the tough seams
along both fingers' links
to get a thrill of power
remembering how to fake
a staggering grounder out
so it would leaps to the mitt
at our convenience,
how that black magic squeezed
in the core would make it
spark off the bat
with a high, nasty crack
you could mistake for no
other sound in the world.
Into the Temple of Baseball.
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