— In memory of Neal Gingery
Since I’ve heard your voice and seen you, Grandpa,
most of my life has passed
and though forever out of reach,
a long-ball gone beyond the fence,
I feel your presence still;
with me
like the cryptic scent of neatsfoot-oiled leather
on my glove-hand,
infield dirt beneath the nails of my right
grass-stained knees,
the easy feel of a clean line-drive.
It’s true I was afraid when you were drunk on Early Times,
shot straight in the morning,
highball glass on your TV tray at night
with me in Grandma’s lap as darkness grew
but that’s only shadow
at the edge of light
that is my memory of you.
I remember how you gave my catcher’s mitt to me.
You bought it new, but I could feel and smell
you’d rubbed it up, worked it in.
I see now when you held it in your arms like a baby
just before you placed it on my hand,
taught me the signs,
how to make a pitcher trust his pitch,
catch a curve, marshal the infield,
showed me the heart and head of the catcher’s job
and how you loved the game.
I never saw you
catch throw field or hit
but I feel now as if that mitt was old and yours,
and when I
nail a runner stealing second base
snag a wild pitch to save a run
or block the plate and make the winning out—
when I do the work I need to do between the lines
on this last road trip to end the season—
that I’m finishing up the game for you.