Bottom of the 7th
the Lakeside Club down
4 to 1
against Dom Polski’s
man on first & third.
Dave Patterson
crouches at the plate,
squinting into the late-August sun.
On the mound, Tim Reed—
who would go on to high school fame,
only to die of cancer
before his 40th birthday—
pivots his right foot
as his left digs
into the dirt.
Amid the relentless chant
of Hey, Batter, can’t hit!
Reed winds up,
delivers a fastball
to Patterson, who
leans into the pitch
& swings.
With the crack of the bat
everyone in the bleachers,
including my mother,
rises in unison,
to follow the ball’s trajectory
as it spins & hurls
like a comet
over the left field
chain link.
As Reed throws his mitt
to the ground
& Patterson trots triumphant
around the bases,
I, the bat boy—
unable to play
because of a clubfoot —
scurry from the dugout
like an opossum,
to retrieve the discarded
Louisville Slugger.
How absurd
to think back on it now,
all these summers gone,
to imagine,
I heard my mother’s voice
above the din,
cheering me on,
as if I’d done something heroic—
as if I were the one
who’d hit a homerun.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 25, Issue 3.
Jason Irwin is the author of the three full-length poetry collections, most recently The History of Our Vagrancies (Main Street Rag, 2020). He was a 2022 Zoeglossia Fellow and has also had nonfiction published in various journals including the Santa Ana Review, & The Catholic Worker. He lives in Pittsburgh, PA USA. www.jasonirwin.blogspot.comSee all items about Jason Irwin
