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“Play ball!” booms a rugged voice
From a concealed booth above the snack shack.
I grab her hand and run
Towards the familiar sounds
Of wood snapping against whizzing balls,
Metal echoing from clunking shoes,
Fences clanging after foul pegs.
We sit in the cold, green, faded bleachers,
Cherry ring pops on our fingers,
Grape soda in our left hand,
Hot dog in right,
Big League Chew saved for later.
Late afternoon sun warms the scene,
Burning each scent into memory.
In our matching clothes and boyish hair
We sit and listen to the dusty diamond noises.
Clapping hands from the dirty dugout,
Thudding balls caught in broken in mitts,
Sharp barks from the big dog behind the plate,
Spiked shoes, gritty slides into second base.