To Break a Heart
It’s his first day of playoffs. Gold
and black cleats. A run to stands
before the game to tap his grandmother
on the shoulder, smile saying, Watch me
crush it, and then as fast as Nolan Ryan’s
yellow hammer, he’s back with his team
huddling with Coach Dad at first base.
Mom positions phone to record
his every move as he saunters toward
the plate. He’ s confident. He’s done this
before. Bat high on shoulder. Knees bent.
Feet wide and parallel to box. And then
the pitch. Strike one. Another pitch.
It’s two. The final throw. He walks
away, head down, more in disbelief
than in sadness. At the dugout,
his seven-year-old teammate retorts,
You stink. Somewhere in the stands
a mama knows her little one’s heart
is breaking. She just knows. She rounds
the corner, lips pursed, teeth clinched.
Who said that? Who is the mean one?
Her glove is off.