HARDBALL

by Christian Conte

Still light left to shag a few pop flies,
you practice grips-
the split seam, the curve, Bob Gibson's slider.
You rub the scars, the scuffs, then
hurl the ball up against a backstop
of dusk-gravity pitches back, eyes track
the shadow's trajectory. The small black hole
expands, you look it into your mitt,
and use two hands the way
your Little League coaches taught.
The white hide now tinged
infield clay, stained by blades
of outfield grass. You hold it to your nose, loving
the pungency of glove sweat,
so when your index feels
a tear in the frayed crimson stitches,
you're not sure why you spade
a fingernail in until the thread
pops, piece of leather flaps.
Pull back enough to uncover
a chaos of twine, world of a million wires
crossed. How long
to untangle? To get down to
the core you've only heard about?
still young enough to believe
there might be something else waiting inside,
more perfect than what you now hold.