artwork: ralph murre
Having
It Out With Baseball
by
Mariann Ritzer
First
of all, your balls are too small
(even
as a kid I sensed this)
and
your bats are either skinny as swamp
reeds
or heavy and thick like a leg
that’s
fallen asleep.
Through
adolescence I tried to play
your
game. From left field I swatted
at
flies and mosquitoes, daydreamed
about
the perfect catch, holding on
while
summers simply wilted away.
When
that small ball finally did come,
it
fell into the path of the blinding sun
and
landed behind me instead of placing
itself
into the oiled softness
of
my waiting glove.
At
the batter’s box I waited too,
my
legs spread, straddling home plate,
my
hands holding the bat just so.
But
even then we couldn’t meet each other
halfway. Either I was too early or it
was
too late. And like Miss Havisham’s
Estella,
the years haven’t softened my heart
towards
you. There are no great expectations.
Sure,
your plump hotdogs are as close
to
heaven as I’ll ever get –
but
they cost me
too
much.
And,
yes, when it’s finally time
for
your seventh inning stretch, it feels
as
good as a full body massage,
but
it doesn’t make up for your one
fatal
flaw – it simply takes you too long
to
get the job done.
~
first published in Page 5
