I bring my hat and glove to the ballgame.
My brother put a ball in his glove, soaked it in oil and wrapped it with rubber bands.
He stuffed it under his mattress. So I do the same.
Last week I made a sign for my team. The All-Star team, I call them.
I dream of catching a foul ball.
Maybe the manager will nod at me.
I carry cards and sharpies in my pocket.
I see a player. I don’t have his card yet, but I recognize him.
He’s wearing blue and a cap like mine.
And he’s standing right in front of me.
He’s taller than he looks on TV.
He’s a pitcher. He was signed in January to a minor league deal, and invited to spring training.
Why wouldn’t I remember?
And he’s shagging fly balls during batting practice.
And he sees me in my blue cap, with my sign.
He nods.
When a ball skips in the grass, he fields it like a slow grounder.
And he hands the ball to me.
It’s cleaner than the one I have, but it’s got a little mud.
The commissioner signed this ball.
He’s new, too.
I look at the ball.
I can’t remember my name for a minute.
The player jogs away.
I say thanks at last.
And he turns, points at me, and smiles.
by 