Tuesday, July 13, 2010

The Trade

I wanted to call you.
I was at that game.
I saw him meekly
Tip his cap to the fans,
The stadium exploding into black and white waves of thunder
For the return of the man who led them to the prize.

I watched him shake the hands of his once teammates.
He was now in the 9th inning of his career
And we were still in high school,
Yet we knew what it was like to play the last inning too.
This is a new summer, and we
Made trades in the off-season.

On the scoreboard photos brilliantly lit up the evening sky.
In my head, I was picking through our pictures
In my shoebox under my bed.
My memories of hand-holding on the couch
Intertwined with
My memories of him on the television.

When he stepped up to the plate in his red uniform
Like hearts and roses and every other clich├ęd symbol of shattered dreams
(And injured backs)
The speakers cried,
“I’m all out of love,”
And I am.

He fought hard
Fouling off a pitch to the left, taking ball one outside
Before he finally hit a long fly ball
And you could “put it on the board…”
But the pinwheels didn’t spin and light-up
And no fireworks showered down upon us.

I stood alone and cheered.
I remembered how we loved him then
Our matching
Pinstriped black and white button down jerseys
(now like a prisoner of sorrow complete with a number on the back)
A thing for Cooperstown from a time which no long exists.

Awestruck, I clapped my right hand against
My left, which was embracing my phone.
I wanted to call you,
But I didn’t.
I wanted to know if you still loved
Him too.

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