As rumored, he's there, in uniform,
Checking oil, cleaning windshields,
When I pull slowly into the station.
Though I've only three dollars to spend,
I stop at the FULL SERVICE island and wait for him.
As he squeezes the nozzle into the hole under
My license plate, I toy with his brown hand.
I slide it into a Rawling fielder's glove -
Blackened by repeated oiling and
Thinned in the pocket by continual poundings
To a toughening suppleness.
As expected, the fit is good.
I wrap this brown hand around the stick mottled
Handle of a Louisville Slugger, down near the knob.
The fingers - one at a time - flex off
And then regrip the rounded ash,
Adjusting,
Until the wood becomes an extension of the hand.
He wipes this hand down his pants.
But they are not white double-knit baseball pants.
They are blue and cotton, cuffed at the grass.
He holds his hand out, bare and empty,
Like a supplicant, and as I count the gas money
Into it, I feel as if he's being cheated.
The Day Satchel Paige and the Pittsburgh Crawfords Came to Hertford, N.C.
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