The first thing you notice is the ball
stopped in mid-air. Playfully tossed just
before the picture was taken. Right
hand already waiting for the ball
to come down. His tongue stuck out in mock
concentration. The red pickup truck
just beyond his right shoulder, the half-
empty stands, the fans standing along
the fence, even his shiny batting helmet
tell the story: another batting
practice before another game. Perhaps,
the World Series. The long black sleeves
would be right. The gesture too. A simple
act of easy grace declaring much:
certain knowledge of his own greatness.
Perhaps I read too much into this card.
But how can I not. The ball hanging
there when his plane could not.
Spitball: The Literary Baseball Magazine
2010 August: Roberto Clemente
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