Home Runs Hit
I’ve replicated recipes for ballpark wieners with no artificial ingredients. I’ve consumed 100% beef while pulverizing 100% wheat. I’ve processed piles of tattle-tale grey laundry with undersized babies on oversized hips and ulcers on a busted lip. I pitch the truth.
I’ve handstitched uniforms for baserunners. I’ve dated outfielders and catchers. I’ve played fields from right to left and, when subbing as shortstop for all-star who caught the flu, I caught the ball of a hitter who convinced me to become a season-ticket holder. Less naughty, more nice.
I’ve nabbed runners stealing hearts and unsavory characters stealing plates—scrapple and home fries duo regularly before batting dates. I’ve perfected the grand slam breakfast, brought home the bacon when no one else would, and pumped new life into deflated balls. Ready. Set. Play.
I’ve stripped stadium leases without usury clauses. I’ve contracted on behalf of unlikely catchers. I’ve hit pop-ups while wearing heels and fielded late night ER calls while buck naked. I’ve evaded epidurals like an unpredictable closer. Batter up.
I’ve hatched eggs (not for sale) and fertilized turf with organic seed. I’ve stopped nose bleeds in cheap seats. I’ve played hard ball with men in suits and negotiated, harder still, with teams of toddlers’ intent on prioritizing forkballs and food fights. Now, I take my eggs fried. Foul ball.
I’ve sliced onions and studied The Onion while pretending to read Kafka in night school. I’ve washed jumpers marred with strawberry juice stains and restrained unruly residents marked for unruly play. I’ve raised chicks and reached boss level on Chicken Run. Game on!
Like Cracker Jacks, a deceptive blend of savory and sweet, grammar is as much a book of rules as a coach’s play sheet is fodder batters with cold feet. Batting order is as tenuous as the muscles in a premature baby’s heart and as tenacious as a Thanksgiving feast. Eyes on the ball, I coach myself awake for another inning. Each beat beautiful. Each meal, a home run.
Why then, like a streaker during the 7th inning stretch, do I catch voices of umpires that no longer matter and fear that, as I play in real time, I’ll swing at curve balls and strike out. I remain, unseen, a catcher behind home plate. Ready, again, to run. The ballpark—my home. Play ball!