We’re taking infield practice and shagging flies,
jersey heat dripping from the bills of our caps,
“Black Magic Woman” on a distant transistor,
kids splashing and shouting in the public pool.
The ribbing and the girl talk are on low.
Someone hits a ball into the tennis courts.
A man in white shorts throws it back gently.
Today the war is coming home.

In an hour my mother will meet me at the door,
still in her nightgown having watched TV all day
as blue plastic capsules
were drawn from two separate drums,
one of which was full of birthdays.
A Winston in her hand her eyes will be red,
but she’ll be smiling.
All she will say is, “316.”

I backhand a grounder near second.
The shortstop turns two.
Crickets are out at noon.
We’re all friends—we’re all nineteen—
our moms at home,
glued to flickering screens,
while we’re out playing the game we know.