Beanball, 1957

 

Beanball, 1957

Jimmy and me, we play in the street,
broomstick for bat, ball wrapped with black tape.
Today he’s Roy Campanella, I’m Pee Wee Reese.
Bangedy car, old black DeSoto, jerks to a stop.
Some lady jumps out dragging a little girl and shouts
“IS THAT THE BOY, CINDY?”
Cindy, she’s about four.
Gaps in her teeth. Same as mom.
Little spit bullets fly from mom’s mouth.
“ANSWER ME, CINDY! HE SHOULD GO TO JAIL!
WHICH ONE DID THAT TO YOU?”

Jimmy and me, we never met Cindy
and I say so.
“YOU SHUT UP.”
It’s Bob Feller going into the windup.
You know it could be a beanball
but you’re up and you stand there.
All you got is a broomstick. You’re eight years old.
You don’t know, you can’t imagine what happened,
except this: Cindy, so hurt, she makes you sad.
She could say anything.
Your life could change forever.

“IS IT HIM? IS THAT THE BOY?”
With a cricket-voice Cindy says,
No. Not them. No no. Not them.

Cindy and the mom in the DeSoto,
gone in a screen of blue exhaust.
“Who’s up?” I say, but we just stand there.
Hot sun, pesky gnats. Ball with black tape.
“Sheesh,” Jimmy says,
which is the best explanation.

……

First published in US 1 Worksheets
photo by James Kern
Note: True story. I still wonder what would have happened if “Cindy” had fingered Jimmy or me.