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They called it a hardship,
ten little fingers and ten little toes
squirming pink in the bassinet.
He could’ve done his time in the
National Guard,
but he wouldn’t have it.
No special treatment
for southpaws or rookie dads.
He would take up arms
in place of strikes
and trade his diamonds
for strange fields
where the wind whistles the reeds
on the other side of the fat earth.
He would leave forever,
Johnny no longer;
he would try to forget
the sweet spot, his piston arm,
his sharp incisor grin
and long shadow leaning
on the mound.
Cowhide for gunmetal —
it was no even trade.
Then, he returned,
they called him John
and locked his fatigues
away in cedar —
those stains will never come out.
They should have been pinstripes,
that regal uniform.
We all knew where he belonged,
striding the loamy lawns
of Mantle and Maris
with the flashbulbs and the 4 train
clattering scattershot
as his eyes tightroped the plate.
I can’t imagine
how he stands it,
hearing the bats crack
and the wild applause
on a crummy transistor
out in the yard
with the cheap gloves,
his thick hands
around age-9 mine,
forming the words that mean
knuckleball
against the knotty red seams.
How can he stand it,
Knowing that he left his
shadow
on the wrong field
on the other side
of the lazy, whistling world?
5.16.01
Meagan Brothers
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