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Wiffle Ball

You stand in the stretch position,

and give me a Gossage-esque glare,

it’s clear you mean business,

this wiffle ball clearly means something to you.

I can’t help but smile, you aren’t pleased, but soon you have your vengeance as I find myself standing dumbstruck with that plastic yellow bat on my shoulder as the first pitch whizzes past me.

I didn’t think it was possible to throw a wiffle ball that hard.

I look at you again, with new eyes,

the broad shoulders, the massive thighs,

you were born for this,

a Ryan in minature.

I swing and miss with Jackson like exaggeration at the second pitch,

Now, my pride is on the line. I can’t be struck out by a nine year old.

Now I’m in the game too, I dig in with purpose,

it’s mano y mano,

you were right all along,

it’s something more this wiffle ball.

When your mom called out, time for dinner, I was glad for the reprieve,

But don’t worry son,

we’ll finish this.

Categories: Poetry
  1. May 11, 2010 at 5:58 am

    I like this. It’s so visual. I can so picture it. I can never totally understand the father-son relationship (being a girl and all) but I do love reading about it when done well, and I think this hits the mark. Nice job.

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