by William Trowbridge
They put me in right field
because I didn’t pitch that well
or throw or catch or hit,
because I tried to steer the ball
like a paper plane, watched
Christmas gifts with big
red ribbons floating through
the strike zone, and swung
at dirt balls. So they played the odds,
sent me out there in the tall grass
by the Skoal sign, where I wandered
distant as the nosebleed seats
my father got us in Comiskey Park,
my teammates looking
remote and miniature,
their small cries and gesticulations
like things remembered
from a dream. I went dreamy,
sun on my face, the scent
of sod and bluegrass, the lilt
of birdcall and early cricket
bending afternoon away
from fastballs and hook slides
to June’s lazy looping
single: baseball at its best,
my only fear the deep fly
with my name on it,
meteoric as Jehovah
or Coach Bob Zambisi
closing in to deliver once
again the meaning of the game:
what it takes to play, why I had to
crouch vigilant as a soldier
in combat, which he never
had the privilege of being,
and stop that lolling around
with my head up my ass,
watching the birdies and picking
dandelions like some kind of
little priss, some kind
of Percy Bitch Shelby.
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