My father drinks, so I don’t stay home much.
My teachers bore me, so I don’t go to class much.
Baseball is my life, my present, my future.
When I take the relay from Conti
and cut down the runner trying to score from first,
there’s no thrill in the world that comes close.
Not even sex.
I have to scratch for everything,
beating our grounders,
dodging inside pitches,
advancing the runner over to third.
I thought I was doin’ fine
until coach threw me a nasty curve
that sent me sprawling to the dirt.
He said I couldn’t play no more because
I had failed three subjects.
He asked me to turn in my uniform.
I refused and ran out of his office, crying,
onto the field, to the batter’s box,
to the only place I can call home.
THE POETRY OF THE GAME