By David Bottoms
On the rough diamond,
the hand-cut field below the dog lot and barn,
we rehearsed the strict technique
of bunting. I watched from the infield,
the mound, the backstop
as your left hand climbed the bat, your legs
and shoulders squared toward the pitcher.
You could drop it like a seed
down either base line. I admired your style,
but not enough to take my eyes off the bank
that served as our center-field fence.
Years passed, three leagues of organized ball,
no few lives. I could homer
into the left-field lot of Carmichael Motors,
and still you stressed the same technique,
the crouch and spring, the lead arm absorbing
just enough impact. That whole tiresome pitch
about basics never changing,
and I never learned what you were laying down.
Like a hand brushed across the bill of a cap,
let this be the sign
I’m getting a grip on the sacrifice.
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Wednesday was a much nicer day than Tuesday, though I spent the beginning of it on Zoom calls, first with my high school friends, one of whom couldn't make it because of work, then with Kristen, with whom I watched a few episodes of Marvel's What If...? (the end of the first season). Around this, I managed to see the Orioles lose both the end of last night's game and today's game after the rain delay, plus the Mariners loss to the Yankees, sigh.
But it was a gorgeous afternoon to walk to the lake, and a good TV evening -- first The Masked Singer's season finale, for which the internet had correctly guessed the identities of the Goldfish and the Gumball -- they were both very good -- and then Dark Matter, which is definitely my favorite show on TV at the moment (great acting, great chemistry between the actors, really thoughtful screenwriting, interesting filmmaking). Our neighborhood duckling families:
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