wiffleball
i wasn’t much
of anything back then
i was sitcoms and loneliness
third helpings of dinners
twinkies and bags of potato chips
i was shopping
in the over-sized men’s clothing stores downtown
my pants specially tailored for my girth
but i could play wiffleball
i could smash plastic on plastic
and drive that ball for yards
whirling into trees, down gutters and over fences
into the yards of neighbors
who didn’t understand concrete glory
who wouldn’t let us walk on their lawns to retrieve our ball
i was a hero in those moments
i felt untouchable and on top of the world
slow-trotting around the cul-de-sac
like willie stargell or a young bobby bonilla
in my head i was strong and muscular
a sports god touching stone bases with the hammer of thor
the biggest grin on my face
the pain of my small world on hold
as i met the high fives of teammates
thin neighborhood kids
with snuff cans in their back pockets
who were allowed to like girls
without all of the angst and humiliation
who had neighborhood girls who liked them back
boys who returned to calling me fat ass
as soon as the game was over
laughing, putting me back in my place
my paltry legend having already dissipated
into the thick air of humid summer days
before the sweat had dried on my brow.
No comments:
Post a Comment