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Rated: E · Poetry · Comedy · #1251022
Those grassless ballfields in the city.
As I grew up in Boston
there proved few fields for play.
But at age seven, this plight
Caused not my dismay.

For the green grass and chalk lines
we found no major need.
Fun could be harnessed with just a
ball and a bat, guaranteed.

The lampposts, car bumpers,
and electric poles did yield
opportunities as bases
in city-kid baseball fields.

One hundred complaints uttered
by the nervous adults,
"You can't play baseball over here.
Broken windows will result."

But never did we listen.
Fun fueled our desires.
Our feet flew 'round those
makeshift bases, blazing afire.

Yes, many interruptions
would often be present:
when cars cruised down our street,
we'd scurry from tar to cement.

Once, the score, tied up at three,
I had come up to bat.
I grasped hold of the wood,
I was cool as a cat.

Kept both my eyes clear on the ball.
Then my bat sent it, "crack!"
But its beeline trajectory?
Toward the landlord's bad back!

My friends froze, and then scattered.
I'd no alternative but to run...
while he grabbed at his backside,
I had made a homerun!

Entry for Write It! Monthly Challenge contest.
Two prompt requirement:
Word: "trajectory"
Phrase: "no alternative but to run"
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