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Hit

Dana Stamps, II

When I played Little League, I struck out each at bat
until, like magic, wham! The ball connected
with my swing, walloped into the air. The center-

fielder, surprised, stumbled backwards until
the ball flew right over his head. Run! Run! Run!
shouted coach Escobar from the dugout.

So I took off. My long ball did not go over the fence,
so by the time I rounded first, the outfielder
had retrieved the ball. He threw it to the relay man

as I nearly tripped on second, but the excited
third base coach waved me in, signaled me to slide
in for a triple: my first hit in a game ever.

My step-dad shouted: That’s my son! That’s my
son that did that! Yep, that’s my boy alright!
Covered in dirt, I was stunned by the crowd of parents

all cheering for me, for I actually hit the ball.
But this wasn’t all, because my sports fan pop loved
winners: dogs, horses, people. And finally, I

was a winner. That’s my son! my legal guardian
proclaimed to strangers in the bleachers;
the first time he called me son: boy, I earned it.

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