By Michael H. Brownstein
Evening, a clear skinned sky, the outfield
green, well trained, and happy, the infielders
gathering the breeze, winds in motion.
We had box seats, close enough to see
the face of the guest of honor throw the first ball,
my son at my side, his first visit to the park,
wild-eyed and cheering, never sitting still,
everything a ballet of motion, the right fielder
throwing a runner out at home, the short stop
reaching for a spiking ball, a long ball curving away,
the pitcher grabbing a line drive – it had to hurt!
The Cubs did not win that game, nor the next,
but none of this mattered to him, nor me.
The lights came on, the theater continued,
the players larger than life, the crack of the bat,
the cracked bat flung away, the jar of a hard hit ball,
the slash of dirt against uniform sliding into home,
the wash of everything, and he felt the game,
the smiles of the players, the very breath of baseball,
the way it was alive, the way it was important.
| Copyright © 2020 by Michael H. Brownstein Michael H. Brownstein’s volumes of poetry, A Slipknot Into Somewhere Else and How Do We Create Love?, were published by Cholla Needles Press in 2018 & 2019, respectively. |
I just took a trip back to the first baseball game my father took me to. It had to be 1951. Thanks Michael.
ReplyDeleteBaseball is the only sport I played, excelling even in elementary school as both pitcher (underhand – well, it was softball, admittedly) and slugger. And, as with Ed, it was a connection with my dad, who played baseball in the cornfields of Arkansas. (I practiced in the cornfield across the driveway from our house on Mr. Nelson’s chicken ranch, and practiced pitching against a strike zone I drew on the barn.) My mother comes into this, too, At home alone with her while Dad was driving crates of eggs to town or loading bags of chicken feed, she would play catch with me before we got to gathering eggs from the hen houses.
ReplyDeleteMy memories of baseball, now, are mostly sad, wistful, of a time long gone by, time that cannot be regained, however hard searched for.