A chain of summer Sundays bound him
to baseball in the gritty sandlot heat,
far from the cool relief of Mozart.
He would plod behind his uncles whose bats
and balls and gloves were codes of manhood
foreign to the delicacy of his fingers
that loved the black and white of a keyboard.
At home he’d squint for pitch after pitch after
pitch, his swings wild and desperate music
for the burning chorus of Step into it already!
Whatza matter? Ya’ friada the ball? from men
whose grins nearly hid the fear he wouldn’t play
the game, their definition of blood wounded
by one who time after time bruised only air,
who prayed for rain in the punishing sun.
...Initiation by Edwin Romond, Woodbridge
Get off the internet and go vote for the school budget in your district. Don't strike out. It's our only chance at bat.
Keep reading and writing,
Maureen
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