Another boyhood memory of family and friends.
The leather ball slapped hard into my hands
from my cousin Robert's hand-off.
I waved for him to go long...
My wobbled spiral throw
was timed for his quick feet
to run back across the knee-high timothy.
He leaped over the white-faced granite rock
that marked the pitcher's mound
when we played baseball,
and landed perfectly, ready to rush.
Head down, stout legs pumping,
he was again the young bull
who I charged through boyhood with.
Toward the goal line Robert led the race.
Across clover and vetch
to the gravel where Lester Lapham's
abandon tin trailer squatted he sprinted.
Hard on his heels in a stumbling run
was cousin Kamala and the Halacy boys
who were sure to bring him down
short of the heel-dug goal line.
Mike grabbed a handful of red t-shirt.
"Ripppppp," went 12 dollars worth of Sears thread.
"Touchdown we win!"
"Bobby, when your mom finds out you are dead!"
Shoulders were shrugged as we lined up again.
It was understood that he could blame me;
somewhat of a family trouble maker, you see.
As the late afternoon shadows grew long
we demanded one final turn carrying the ball,
dreaming we were destined to be stars, all.
The leather ball slapped hard into Robert's hands
from my short throw.
He waved me to go long...
Fast and low,
on and on we go,