Doesn’t matter, exactly,
if you got it right, if
the ball field was
meager or luxuriant,
this block or that.
Maybe strikes were called,
or maybe you just stood
there, holding back,
kept waiting for exactly
what you wanted, then
bailed when the curve
ball contrived to curve. .
My glove was probably
dirty, beginning to crack
for lack of protective oil.
I wouldn’t take advice
on wrapping the ball tight
in its grasp, binding
the glove in string
for a while, letting
it sit alone, until leather
softened as needed.
Served anyway, shield
against glare, scourge
of whirling gnats.
So likely dusk
on a weed-ridden lot
overdue for reseeding.
I could say the papers
got it right, about a flaring
object transiting above,
bound for the North Woods—
but then you would miss
the actual smoke and
sparks and commotion
that spewed behind it,
even the awful florid
trajectory, the improbable
slowness of a foreign
body hurled our way.
Unguided, we might
have stalled our play
and simply gaped, heads
creased back on necks,
skimpy arms tensed to catch
what no longer could be
caught, before we had
to tell our own families
we’d seen something
no one’s going to believe,
that a fireball transected
the sky sheltering our
game, that afterwards we
resumed without any due
exhalation. And when
it gets really dark, probably
no one’s willing to call it
quits, as if the ball couldn’t
be a meteor curving in,
making us flop into sweet
floury dust, making us
dumb to the next pitch.