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Hard To Smile

David J. Thompson

I meet up with some former students
every Thursday night for beers and laughs.
Though they’re all out of college now,
they still all call me Mister Thompson
no matter how often I tell them
it makes me feel old. Last night
Hallie came back to the table
with two pitchers of beer, told us
she wanted to put together a Sunday afternoon
softball team for a co-ed league this spring,
was looking for some guys who might want to play.
Kyle, at the other end of the table said he was in
for sure, could play shortstop or third.
A few other guys assured her they wanted
to play, too, and I saw myself thirty years younger
and forty pounds lighter making a basket catch
in centerfield, then at the plate driving a fat pitch
into the right centerfield gap and hustling it
into a stand-up triple to the cheers of my teammates
in the dugout. I was about to tell Hallie I couldn’t wait
to get out on the diamond when she finally looked
my way and asked, Mister Thompson would you like
to coach first base? I’m sure we could use your experience.
Oh, I answered and looked down at my empty glass,
then pushed it slowly forward for a refill. I don’t know,
I said trying hard to smile. I’m usually pretty busy on Sundays.

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