When I was nine,
my father taught me baseball.
Not how to take a stance
and grip the bat
or slide into second base…
but how to listen —
to close my eyes and visualize
the game.
And we would lie on the floor
near the hi-fi
in the dusk;
screen door open,
cushioned atop the loops
of the new, nylon wall-to-wall carpeting,
imagining every fast ball
from Sandy Koufax,
every base stolen
by Maury Wills —
almost tasting the peanuts
and feeling the metal seats,
listening to Vin Scully
making it seem real
play by play
side by side
just the two of us,
together.