Church League
 

Who knows what inning it was lightning struck twice.
My Dad, "Nedley" by the pastor's choosing, was batting
and so what, if it's Tuesday night softball, and you're
trying to tear the glove off the kid with whom you're
playing catch?-- You stop to watch the game for a bit.

And he was playing without his shoes on, and I sighed,
putting my fingers in the fence, behind the plate.
Not a hit all season, a perfect triple-oh, three little
circles all in a row. I want to say he fouled one off
but I do know for certain the bat was heavy aluminum,

his older brother's, silver where the blue was torn.
Anyway, being a lefty, he tore one off to left, and
the grass in the outfield wasn't so much unmowed,
as it was overgrown, this being the city's and not
the high school's park. And he tore one off to left,

right; you could hear it whizz in the thick summer
humidity, and he's already past first, and looking
back up, whoever's in left is twelve feet from the ball.
And somebody from the stands yells Go, Nedley! as he
moves around the shortstop, waiting for the throw

from left, and left hits the cut-off man instead
of throwing to third, and my Dad's decided to hell
with it all: his steel boots are his only pair of shoes;
he'll never get over his brother's death; and of his kids,
maybe. And he slides and the ump is screaming Out!

And the catcher drops the ball.