BACKYARD STADIUM

By Roger Wallock
copyright 2007

Thunk, the plastic yellow bat whacks the Whiffle Ball
flying into the fence as I scramble to the cement corner
that serves as first base. I dodge my little brother’s
throw as he attempts to get me out. I round the elm tree,
head to the redwood deck third base, and sprint home,
sliding into the Frisbee for a homerun.

Childhood imaginations creating story book finishes
and backyard heroics. Winning World Series and
breaking established records all the while
laughing and cheering, yelling and sweating
in the steamy summer sun.
Neglecting chores and ignoring parents, my
brother and I wore down that field of green
leaving deadened trails from base to base.
Monstrous curveballs and sneaky sliders snuck
past our mighty swings.

We were gods during those hours: Dale Murphy,
Reggie Jackson, and Mike Schmidt; Nolan Ryan,
Steve Garvey, and Phil Niekro. No one could touch
our boyhood play. Deep into the darkened night,
the porch light feebly penetrating the black,
we battled for championship rings and pennants.
We wielded a plastic yellow bat and a whistling white
ball during the days of innocence before we really
understood that life was more than a
backyard stadium full of baseball heroes.