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.