Game of My Life

for Julio Franco

Outside the cracked bedroom window, Koreanspice viburnumhas bloomed white clusters the size of small baseballs. Theirexotic scent wafts through and settles

on my foot, sticking out from a cotton sheet—

I'm playing baseball. I'm at short,

never my position; nevertheless, my teammates are spread out onthe field around me, adjusting their caps and shades. At first baseis my hero Julio, oldest in the Big Leagues. With no record ofbirth, he figures to be 49, but I think he lies to keep the press awayfrom 50-plus. He's year-by-year, but the Ageless Wonder merelychides, "I fathered all you bambinos," banishing players under 30from the cage while he takes his pregame cuts. He lets me in, andoffers a bat. The crunches and pushups have paid off, I'm at theshow with Julio,

in the game of my life. Flash bulbs explode with the pitch!

A fastball fires off the bat. I feel, no surprise, like a jaguar, musclesand ligaments hurtling past my memory of limit; I pounce to theball, backhanding it deep in the hole, and stretch my arm tothrow,

but Julio's not at first, and I don't throw . . . The stirring spicesettles on my foot again, and this means I'm not to wake.

My father now stretches as if from first, giving me a target. "Humit to me," he says, smacking the pocket of my old glove with theback of his fist. I look around. I'm in the grassy lot behind my

childhood house, edged by sticky bark-flaking pines and oaksdripping with moss. The crystal blue sky

radiates. He's got on khaki shorts hoisted high on his abdomenwith a black belt, his striped polo shirt is tucked in, he sports hisfavorite fishing cap, clearly relaxed on Saturday after makinghospital rounds. "Come on, Bull, hum it." I feel moist heat on theback of my neck under my long, bushy hair, my jeans tight, cutoff with an even band of white fray around my tanned thighs.Barefoot. I see I'm wearing this t-shirt he was so amused topresent on my sixteenth birthday—face of the hairy Wolfmanbearing fangs, with spiky letters: Trust me!

I'm trying to remember if I've ever done this before, throw a ballto him. A ball with neat stitching like the silk hatches he gentlythreaded between my eyes the night my forehead was smashedon a steering wheel. I don't want to hurt him humming the ball ashe asks. But it's a well-intentioned gesture, like handshaking, so Itoss the ball—

it arcs then falls to his glove exactly where he holds it open.