This is the last night you’ll shimmy under cars,
Scrape your arms to grab a foul ball, or
Wear the imprint of gravel on your legs when
You race to the concession stand for the free treat.
You will no longer split the thin sheet of bubble gum, or
Hope for a Boston Red Sox trading card on the inside wrapper
It is the last night you’ll jump at the sound of a cracked bat
Hear the clap of a ball as it lands in a leather mitt, or
Linger among the swelling wave of voices from the crowd
Rising from the mist of hamburger grease and cigarette smoke
This is the last night you’ll stand at the top of the bleachers
And spit sunflower seed shells over the side of the railing
You don’t know it yet but this is the last night
You will ever spit in front of anyone again
But the boy in front of you, the one who spent a whole afternoon and
Three rolls of masking tape to make a ball for your whiffle bat,
The boy who now offers you half his pack of M&Ms
Because he remembers that you like sweet after salty—
He sees the girl you don’t yet recognize
The girl who will leave her glove on the top shelf of her closet
The girl who will ask her mother to buy her a skirt and
A purse to hold lip gloss, perfume, and a plastic comb
You don’t know this yet, but it is the baseball you’ll miss most.
The grass streaked, gray from dust and spit, and
So worn its red stitching is frayed—
That baseball
The one bitten by a bat again and again, polished
In musk oil and leather until it feels like suede—
That baseball
What you’ll miss most is the weight of it in your hand
~Sheila LaSalle
lifewithsaints 