Fastball

Thinking about how she flung a softball right into my dad’s eye. How with her he was like helluva pitch, girl. How he said she could split the light with her fastball. How he said man, it’s too bad you can’t play real baseball with an arm like that, too bad softball is a man’s game. How she always hated that. How she would still just give him a very cool pitcher’s nod, snapping the brim of her U of M cap down, snapping a ball into one bare hand then the other, because yeah, she could put a light out with that arm. How it was our last time in my dad’s basement, how Wayne’s World was playing, sound on high, how her glove-hand pressed over my mouth, how it smelled of Doritos, leather, sweat, spit, how when he caught us, he grabbed her shoulder hard and said we were playing a man’s game. How she let that ball fly. How she pitches beer league now, a little drunk; how her fingers spread wide over stitched red seams, how she still has a hell of an arm, how later she will press her glove-hand over my mouth and pitch me into the light.