Night game
raining on and off
seats in right field
peanuts, nachos, hot dogs
souvenir cap
in fancy modern non-classic design
Strolling
to center field to peer over the wall
into the home bullpen
where relievers limber rain-out rusty arms,
then to Home Run Porch
where the guy next to us spurts chaw
juice every fifteen seconds
then back to our seats.
A home run almost comes,
the right fielder tosses the ball to us—
a guy in front nabs it, disappointment
melts in steady raindrops, then re-forms
in fruitless home at-bats. Early leavers
stream toward exits, but we know
who has turns remaining.
Bottom of the ninth
trailing by one:
Homer to tie.
Walk.
Homer to win.
We cheer
in the rain
march to the car, smiling
with fifteen thousand others.
Driving home I notice
not once
did he make a point of not
sitting with me or
walking with me.
Nor did I lecture him
or correct him.
Nor did he argue
or annoy.
Nor did I show annoyance,
or impatience.
And when we get home
and his mother asks
how was the game,
I say
it was a good night,
and I mean it.
