Saturday, somewhere, around 6:30 a.m.
A voice, familiar yet far away
Drifts into my slumber.
Question, ‘where is’ begin
My uniform, batting gloves
Hat and mitt
The pitch is made, swing
Strike one, I pace
Strike two, I pace some more.
Did you see my jock strap
(protects, the whisper of manhood)
Can we have breakfast at Garlands?
The batter steps out of the box
Takes a couple of deep breaths
Back in the box one last time.
Groaning, I roll over, whispering
‘My only day to sleep in’
Small hands shake my work weary body
Detonating blue and pink rollers from atop my head
The pitch is made, the batter swings
The ball whistles through the air
Between center and left field
Shutters open, I ease out of bed
Resigned to Saturday fate, I shower
Thinking, how can a small person be so zealous
Runners fly around the bases, two runs scored
A runner on third, one at second
A spectators’ voice cries…’YES’.
I dress with a shadow hovering
Prodding me to make haste
Don’t want to be late
Mighty Mite…well he’s in the car!