Resolution

A call and settlement cancelling the court date, ending the work of lawyers and insurance reps.

After long days of waiting news came from the hospital. She was six, brain damaged.

Her mother wailed as the ambulance left surrounded by sirens, flashing lights and confusion. People ran in panic, a neighbor called for help.

Blood pulsed from her gashed head, pooling in the street. We froze after hearing flesh, bone and steel collide. She was out of sight, I’d choked a prayer, we’d swerved. She’d bolted into the street.

It was dusk, we were driving back to school.

Right over the plate

The baby-faced rookie wipes sweat from his forehead. Looks straight into the eyes of his childhood hero. His mind races, split-seconds before the action.

Last game of the season, my first year in the bigs. Neither team’s going anywhere. He was playing when I was in little league. Never faced him before. Sounds like he’s done after today. Full count. One chance to put him down… or make his day. Why not? Throw him a fat one, let him go out with a dinger.

The ball heads toward home, maybe going seventy-five, right over the plate. He swings high.

“Strike three!”

Afraid of finding out

She said it was my choice. Marriage or college? Said she trusted me to decide.
Right. Just like she said I could date anyone I wanted, or spend the money that grandma left me to visit Disneyland for Christmas with friends. Said she’d never interfere. She didn’t have to; I always knew what she wanted.

I wasn’t like my brother. He did what he pleased and lived with the fall-out. She’d explode, saying, “You don’t really love me.” He’d fake remorse and then charm her into forgiveness.

I never trusted it’d work for me and I’m still afraid of finding out.

It’s easy to write about baseball

It’s easy to write about baseball
It’s not like football, four boundary lines
Ninety degree angles of absolute control
Gladiators fighting over an odd shaped ball
Or basketball, soccer or hockey
Again, all are confined to a rectangle
Chasing an object back and forth

Baseball is unique, it stands alone
Not confined to a box, there are the lines of
First and third which give definition
But are not the last word

It’s the outfield, with a different shape
And measure in each park, it’s not the end
You can leap and stretch over the wall
And steal a home run, or the ball can
Continue flight over the fence
And if it is lucky, out of sight lost in infinity
Maybe still traveling
Theoretically still in play

The rhythm, the space and pace
The absence of time
The whisper of eternity

I still hate it

After years of alcohol and absence, Dad tried making amends by turning us into fishermen.

He’d wake us early on Saturday. The stream was an hour of erratic mountain road away, guaranteed to make me car sick. We’d park before first light, unload the gear, and hike to “our spot.” If we were lucky, we only had to suffer a chilly drizzle instead of the usual downpour. Dad was quickly lost in the zone. We’d run and laugh, throwing rocks into the silent, inviting creek.

“Knock it off! This is serious business. Shut up, stay put, fish.”

I still hate fishing.

The long walk

Picking strawberries, that’s what you did in the summer at thirteen. Up early to meet the bus, one the schools no longer wanted, with a cranky driver who doubled as field boss.

Spend the day bent over the rows. The weather jumped between blazing sun or pouring rain.

This day the rain came in buckets.

“Can we go home? Please? This is crazy.”

“Keep working.”

We’d show him who’s in charge. “We quit!”

“Okay, start walking.”

Five hours later, we’d covered an unknown distance, drenched and exhausted, only a mile from home the bus passed us. The driver laughed, waved, honked.

I looked like her

They said I looked like Grandma, red hair and all. Named me after her, Sarah Joy. I don’t remember her. There’s a baby picture of me on her lap. She died of cancer later that year. Stories made her out to be perfect.

I rushed home after school and straight to my room. Dropped on my bed as tears overwhelmed me. Momma knocked and opened the door.

“What’s the matter, honey?”

Words gurgled through my crying, “Oh, Momma, I’m pregnant.”

“Don’t worry about that, dear. How do you think I got here?”
Sixteen and pregnant. Turns out it’s a family tradition.