Baseball My parents bought me a left hand glove. They did their best. A slow moving mystery filled with foreign gestures; the coach touching his peaked cap, tapping his chest, the crouched catcher signaling between his legs. Later, they asked what kind of sport was played on a diamond, Was the soil hard? Would I be rich? And home plate-was it made of china? Why is the short stop not short? What is a bullpen? Some days I’d answer patiently. Another glove was out of the question Even then, I knew not to ask, that the savings were gone and there was less meat for a week because of a leather extravagance. “Cricket players don’t wear gloves” was the only objection And that was quickly shushed by my mother. I learned to throw with my right hand Weeks of quiet practice with the misfit next door, pitched tennis balls careening off the garage wall. Never accurate but I did get strong Peering from left field, I’d hope for pop flies but other things distracted me, like the way they sat erect in the stands, reading their foreign paper. My teammates would squint at the outfield following the line drive to my outstretched glove Their cheers prompted my parents mistimed applause As I hurled the ball in an errant direction. I would grip the bat and swat like mad at the incoming pitch but half of swing is attitude. I’d try to earn my way with a solid hit, Then stranded on base, I’d wait for the coach’s signal, But stealing home is always tougher than it looks Baseball is not a game of effort so much as belonging. Each fielder standing alone, occupying their territory Or at bat planted over home plate, guarding their inheritance.