Family Weekends
Bright and early on a Sunday morning,
my mom and dad lounged
in Washington Nationals,
camping chairs.
Hot Dunkin Donuts coffee,
resting in the mesh cup holder.
Sunflower seeds sitting in my lap.
I ate them slowly, putting one in my mouth at time,
spitting out the shell of the previous.
My sister sat to my right,
with bright red cheeks,
shivering in the cold morning air.
All of us bundled together,
under a blanket.

As we watched my brother play,
in his neon green digital camo jersey,
black and neon green hat.
He stood on the artificial turf mound,
ball twirling in his right hand,
behind his back.
He came set,
putting his hand and ball
in his glove.

He raised his knee to his chest,
bringing his arm back behind him.
He extends his foot towards the plate,
and plants it in the ground,
just as his arm reaches out front of him.
He releases the ball,
as it spins and whistles towards home plate.
Thud.
The ball smacks into the catcher's mitt.
“Strike three.”
The umpire announced.

While he strolls off the mound,
towards the dugout,
we praise his pitching,
and his good outing.
I even waddled over to the dugout,
hands in pocket,
sunflower seeds in my mouth.
I slide my hand out of my pocket,
sticking out my fist to the fence.
And gave him a fist bump,
and whispered to him
“Good job, buddy.”