no balls

it was the championship game:
no outs in the
bottom of the last inning.

I was on the mound and
I thought about a beautiful young girl;

her name was
Brittany; she had one and a half feet

I threw the first pitch:
swing and a miss!

no balls and one strike.

I thought about Brittany, how she
wanted to kiss me just hours before
the game.

swing and a miss:

still no balls, and with two strikes.

I was only twelve
I’d never stuck my tongue in a girl’s
mouth, and a few had even tried.


still no balls and two strikes.

then, for a short minute, I focused on
the batter;
I remembered he had a weakness.

my heart raced like it should’ve;
the field overflowed with spectators
this was the championship and
I was on the mound … (pitching).

I threw the next pitch 
(still no balls), 60 mph above
his freckled head,
the kid swung and missed, then
fell to his knees like a crucified Jesus


I watched Brittany from the
corner of my eye
as we piled like dogs and made
each other bleed.

my parents yelled with joy; (not at me
but with me this time).

when we cleared the field I saw the kid
who swung and missed three
times; he cried and cried in the corner
of the bleachers;

his face in his wet boogery hands

I forgot about Brittany; I
walked up to the sad sad loser
with a massive lump in my throat
and said:

“I’m sorry man, good try…good try.”

but he ignored me,
kept his face in his hands like
his mother had died;
like he had just lost them the
big game (which wasn’t true at all)

I forgot about Brittany and her one
and a half feet.

I felt sorry for winning the championship
game, for making the kid cry.

still no balls … and way too many strikes.

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