Sports are a bridge
That keeps me connected to the mainland. And all the best bridges Are a little bit dangerous. Rickety and mysterious, With one side shrouded in fog. That side is memory. That side is moments and meaning. Trading cards in the shoebox beneath the bed-- Messy and random and perfect. Anthony Rizzo Plays first base For the Chicago Cubs Baseball club. He is the best player in the world At getting hit by pitches. He is a big boy, And he crowds the plate-- Leaning and teetering. Swaying Like a drunk on the train platform Peering down the tracks. Unafraid And almost hit By just about everything. Never hopping back Or dancing to avoid contact. He is not that kind of guy. He is the player from the cards I collected as a kid. He is my father’s cigar boxes And pennies cleaned in vinegar. American Mother fucking Baseball. Pie and hot dogs. Flags and fireworks. Fresh cut grass and dark green ivy. Nostalgia is a funny thing-- Spinning out of control until All memory becomes good memory. Dad used to take me to games Some summer Sundays. Good days, Laced with fear-- With danger. And all the best days Are a little bit dangerous. Skipping school. Riding roller coasters. First kisses and first punches And jumping off the cliff into the water When all you can see is reflection and rock. It turns out Dad didn’t really care about baseball. And I was just a little ass kid, Figuring out the rules As I went along. So Dad would drink, And I would watch this game That I learned to love. And from this side of the bridge The games themselves are lost in that fog. Bills put into savings. A blur of sounds and smells and colors. All I see with any clarity Is the train platform Once the game has ended. Crowded with fans and families And smelling of ancient piss. And Dad, Drunk, Perched on the edge of the platform Like Rizzo in the batter’s box, Staring down the tracks til they curve out of sight. Swaying and Teetering And leaning in. While I stand small in his shadow Wondering what would happen if he fell. Even now, Watching baseball-- I am still the littlest bit afraid. I bite my nails As the pitcher gets in his stance. And my heroes crowd the plate, Feeling for the rumble of the platform. Staring down the tracks while the pitcher winds up. Unaware I am standing behind them-- Unafraid of the coming train.
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AuthorNew works by the author of Bulls Bard Volume I: The Final Chapter available on Amazon. ArchivesCategories |