He grabbed the handle
grinned proudly, stepped to the plate
seemed like yesterday when he
taught me how to swing
now he’s in the box
balance giving in to Parkinson’s
I pitched the ball with some heat
strike one, he said, pitch it again
You alright? Sure I’m fine, pitch the ball
I throw one slowly, strike two
I search for an excuse not to throw next pitch:
barbecue’s ready, food’s on the table
I looked down at the mound, same browned hump
where he taught me how to settle in and focus
Pitch the ball, he said, don’t be afraid
I did and strike three came
Dad walked to patio,
Mom asked how was the game
Dad grinned and said,
your son can’t pitch worth a damn!
copyright 2008, Frank Messina
from Full Count: The Book of Mets Poetry