Strikes and Strike Out

They are set up, 10 in a triangle formation.
Slowly, cautiously, I walk forward
The ball heavy in my hand.
It has been years since I bowled,
Years since I even though of strikes and frames.
I let the ball loose, it falls with a thud and rolls
Into the gutter.

He invited me out to the ballpark, it's the subway series.
I'm a Yankee fan, he's for the Mets.
We watch as Jeeter approaches the plate,
Sizes up the pitcher,
Positions his body well into the strike zone
And hits a home run.

Yes! I shout, and wish my father were here
Instead of my angry Met fan friend.

My childhood was filled with Saturdays
Watching bowling and Yankee games on TV.
The only sports my father enjoyed.
But only to watch, never play.
After his illness left him with one lung
He saw himself as too frail to play sports.
Yet he would power walk as we strolled through the park
Or run when he had to catch a bus.

In his life there always seemed to be 1 pin left standing
And strike outs where the only balls tossed his way.
The only score he kept was the tracking of the days
Where in he still could breathe.
Those were the stolen bases of his life.

© Leona Seufert


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