t was a nasty day, cold and misty, so most of the
fans left by the third inning. He stayed though,
leaning on the trunk of a sugar maple and pulling on
a Chesterfield.

The other guys, all clad in fancy uniforms and cocky,
had men on first and second in the top of
the ninth with one out.

A double play would mean the championship,
free beers and brats later on at Big Buster’s
Bar and Grill, and a story to tell my grandchildren
when I was too old to walk.

A grounder, hard and low, twisted toward me.
I snatched it ankle high, stepped on third, and
tossed a dart, three feet high and whizzing, to first,
nailing the runner by half a step, maybe less.

He pumped a fist, and a smile played around his lips.
No further accolades were needed, because he was
hard against seventy, and he still made every game.

He was my dad, and I miss him. Every day I miss him.