I had a cheap uncle,
Who kept the bait
All to himself
Fishing
The Mississippi;
“Take this pole,
You got a good hook there…”
So,
All I could do,
Was walk away,
Cast the line,
Drag the hook,
Hope ’twas shiny-sparkling-glittering
In the eye of a fish;
Quickly bored, bored,
Bored,
’till
Something
Yanked the rod into
An upside-down
U
Pulling me,
Slipping sneakers/socks in mud
—mom was gonna kill me—
“Whatja got there?”
My uncle reached for the rod
I could feel something
Trembling from hook to line to rod to
My little hands;
I barked, “It’s mine!”
My uncle recoiled,
stepped away, concluding,
“It’s a log!”
(It’s then that I realized:
Adults are idiots);
Two hours later,
Blood oozing
’Tween hands and rod,
The foe lay sideways in the mud,
A living THING!
The huge hook glinting with each thrash;
Sucking in my breath,
Reaching for the gill,
I thrust in both hands,
Hauling that spasming fish up,
2/3 the height,
1/2 the weight,
Of me;
Now, we got
Silent Bumgarner,
Whiskers twitching,
Eyes half-closed,
Lording over,
Considering everything,
This silent stretch of Baseball Sea;
Yes he’s got the shiny stats,
Commentators gushing
Koufax-Ryan-Christy Mathewson-(Clean) Clemens-Bumgarner
But this is not ’bout numbers and hot wind;
This is his baseball zipping,
Smiting,
Dumbfounding,
Snagging,
Snaring,
Grappling,
Clinching,
Tricking,
Condor-like claws puncturing,
Pulling in
One after another,
Quickly, slowly,
Determinedly,
All he needs,
Is 27;
They might struggle,
Fight,
Some slip away,
Break the line and take a hook;
But patiently,
He’ll fill his skiff,
Once again;
Wordless, grunting;
And we’ll all marvel
At how he does it;
You know,
Godzilla,
Didn’t speak much either,
Smiting the bad guys;
Slithering off
From San Francisco,
Thoroughly victorious.