Pop
Pop
I forgot how good it feels, the ball slapping the web.
The pop.
How do you do it at seven?
I only remember the end of the lineup, finally a hit, never running so fast, my stride stretching over first.
Never touching.
When I was you, but older.
My father’s hand, off my glove, the ball in my teeth.
But you kept throwing.
A tear or two, then back again.
Pop. Pop.