The ball whizzes through the air,
back and forth from glove to glove.
We run over the dry dirt, jumping through the dust,
leaping, diving, for the torn-up ball
in the South American sun.
From the Nicaraguan to the American,
me to him,
from Domingo to me.
No voice of English to no voice of Spanish,
and yet, we understand each other,
back and forth, back and forth.
His skill is that of an ace.
He throws something fierce,
moves like a panther, quick and sharp
and yet smooth and sleek.
All the neighbors come out to play,
and we shout
pass the ball, and
pasas la pelota,
and speak the universal language
of all boys.