We all started playing in organized baseball/softball in grade school. My parents coached my siblings and me over the years, and I thank them for that. I thank them for showing me how great the game really is. With Opening Day only 10 days away, I just had to blog about baseball.
One of my favorite memories involves baseball. Last semester I was sitting in the library trying to read for my British Literature class when I decided to get off topic (of course) and write a poem. If you know me at all, I'm not a big poetry person. I don't do emo poems, or romance, or death stuff. It's very conversational, like I'm talking with a friend. Anyway, this is what I wrote.
To My Dad
The floor lamp glows over him
on the couch. It's the only light in the room.
I walk past with my hair loosely dangling
in a ponytail and softball socks unevenly pulled up
on my twiggy twelve year old legs.
The newspaper crinkles and there he is, my dad - my
coach, in shorts and no shirt. Perched halfway down his
nose are his glasses. He bends down the paper to view the television.
The game is on - Milwaukee Brewers versus
some other team, it doesn't matter.
An announcer's voice and the crack of the bat
mumble quietly from the speakers of our television. Someone
hit a double, or a triple, someone popped out, someone
slid into home plate. We invite "Mr. Baseball's" smooth calls
from our garage radio into our home, because he is baseball.
The summer breeze sneaks through the front
screen door trying to cool us as night begins to take
hold. My mother's voice sings from the kitchen as she
talks with a friend or a relative over the phone.
I find the chair and sit with my sweaty shirt
sticking to my skin. My black ball cap lined with mocha
colored field dirt rests over my cold forehead
and damp hairline. The game is still on me. It lives on me.
We won. We lost. But that doesn't matter.
There we sit. Without words. This is my summer.
This is what matters. Just a father and his daughter
sharing a night of ballgames.
on the couch. It's the only light in the room.
I walk past with my hair loosely dangling
in a ponytail and softball socks unevenly pulled up
on my twiggy twelve year old legs.
The newspaper crinkles and there he is, my dad - my
coach, in shorts and no shirt. Perched halfway down his
nose are his glasses. He bends down the paper to view the television.
The game is on - Milwaukee Brewers versus
some other team, it doesn't matter.
An announcer's voice and the crack of the bat
mumble quietly from the speakers of our television. Someone
hit a double, or a triple, someone popped out, someone
slid into home plate. We invite "Mr. Baseball's" smooth calls
from our garage radio into our home, because he is baseball.
The summer breeze sneaks through the front
screen door trying to cool us as night begins to take
hold. My mother's voice sings from the kitchen as she
talks with a friend or a relative over the phone.
I find the chair and sit with my sweaty shirt
sticking to my skin. My black ball cap lined with mocha
colored field dirt rests over my cold forehead
and damp hairline. The game is still on me. It lives on me.
We won. We lost. But that doesn't matter.
There we sit. Without words. This is my summer.
This is what matters. Just a father and his daughter
sharing a night of ballgames.
