The pull is strongest late mornings in the Summer.
The sun brings up the light on a sky
Whose promise reaches across decades.
Heat builds outside the plate-glass window,
And I'm ready for hours of sweat-soaked baseball,
Though the schedule says it's an air-conditioned office day.
Since I cannot return, I merely remember:
Two 12-year-old boys, each sharp-boned and scabby-legged,
Face each other from opposite ends
Of the three treeless yards, fed by Artesian wells,
At the crook of their horseshoe street.
One is the league's premier power pitcher,
The other its most feared slugger.
Props are few: Wooden bat, not yet cracked,
An outfielder's glove, almost broken in,
And the remnant of a hardball wrapped in electrical tape.
The breeze off the Atlantic, a mile away, blows in.
The sun spectates, changing position for a better view.
A neighbor's dog umpires from the shade.
The two fall into a pattern they did not create
But infuse with theatrics all their own.
Hit. Field. Throw. Count to three. Count to nine.
Try to stay clear of the cactus and Spanish Bayonet.
Watch out for bad hops on the driveways.
Keep track of the baserunners, stay up on the score.
Game over, they pause to hose off and drink
In long gulps that make their bellies ache.
They bask in the sun's approval of their deeds:
Another 10-strikeout win for one,
Two doubles and a homer for the other.
What you would expect of the league's top players.
In time, the pain in their guts subsides.
They rise slowly, and the sun roars
As they walk back onto the field.
Cosmic Baseball Association
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