T his time every year, rich memories stir my soul, perhaps coaxed by the warming breezes of spring. Memories filled with the smell of leather, oiled in Neatsfoot. Maybe its the clatter of wooden bats in a canvass bag, the rattle of metal spikes on concrete, the snug feel of the ballglove, or tuggin’ on the ballcap, with the bill rolled just right.
Perhaps it’s the smoothness of the cowhide sphere, my finger grip on raised seams, that stirs in my warm recall. Or the click and clack of the catcher’s gear, as he crouches, giving me the signs. Maybe it’s my right foot on the rubber, just before my leg coils for delivery. The “hey batter batter” chatter from my infielders, just before the loud pop of the ball in the pocket of the catcher’s mit — me waiting eagerly to hear “steee-rike threeee” ring out from the ump!
Or is it your arm around my shoulder, the pride in your eyes, as I step down, entering the dugout, after retiring the other team. “Nice job pitch”, you say. “Thanks dad, I mean coach” is my reply. Your were my Little League coach, and you helped make me a helluva hurler — which carried my ball career all the way through high school.
It is every year at this time, that I think of all of this, that I think of you dad. How you wanted me to try pro, and how the scout felt I had the arm — but it is the path I didn’t take. I chose music and the arts, and you never made me feel sorry for my choice — one that you supported as genuinely as you did my sports. It is you I think of this time of year, you I still miss so. You dad, are these memories, and I love you deeply, now in this tearful moment — and always. Thank you for coaching me, and for loving me!
vivid white chalk stripes
laid neatly on soft tan dirt
dad’s gift of baseball
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rob kistner © 2023
Poetry at: dVerse