“You’ll never be worth a damn at this,”
my grandfather mumbled his assessment
of my chances for becoming semi-pro.
I was clumsy, half-blind, and couldn’t throw.
I had no ambitions. So no regrets.
But he had had hopes and his own past–
from high school to college to a fake job
that allowed him to represent his mill town
by pitching and running base. In place
of changing spools on a Jacquard loom,
he threw for an hour in the dye room.
Then shuffled invoices as a way to rest
his arm. Then back again. All winter,
day after day the same. Getting ready
for the summer’s games. A few good years,
before he was offered a stint in Sales.
He became the toast of Abbeville.
He wanted that for me after my father
said he preferred to fail at Latin
(which he did). But I was a boy who dreamed.
And would never even try to make the team.
I share his love of cheap beer and big cigars
and of baseball–when played by amateurs,
when the bats are ash, balls wrapped in leather.
He’s in those things, young again, strong and limber–
with every smell, taste, and sound, I remember.