Batting Practice
Batting Practice
By Steve Cushman
My father and I stand in centerfield at Fenway,
ready to field batting practice on this May day
that never happened. We’d climbed the waist-high
fence at 3rd, and walked to the outfield to play catch
when Mookie and Jim Rice emerged from the dugout
each with a pair of bats on their shoulders.
I handle left field while Dad takes center. I don’t
catch a single popfly, usually take them on a
bounce or two, but my father catches them
two-handed like he taught me back in little league.
Eventually, security shoos us away, but we don’t
care; we’ve faced the Green Monster, something
we had seen countless times on TV, and in person
once, when Yaz hit a walk-off double for the win.
My father saunters out ahead of me, into
the parking lot. When I call to him, he turns
and throws the ball into the air. It’s such a blue
sky, blindingly blue, but somehow, even with my
eyes closed, I’m able to catch this one like I’ve
been dreaming about since the day he left us.
Steve Cushman has published three novels. His first full-length poetry collection, How Birds Fly, is the winner of the 2018 Lena Shull Book Award.