Dear Mike: We didn’t have a chance. Our starter had no change
and second base had not been plugged since early in July.
How this town turned out opening night of the tournament
to watch their Valley Furniture team wipe us, the No-
Name Tavern of Missoula, out. Remember Monty Holden,
ace Havre pitcher, barber, hero of the Highline, and his
tricky “catch-this” windup? First inning, when you hit that shot,
one on, the stands went stone. It still rockets the night.
I imagine it climbing today, somewhere in the universe,
lovelier than a girl climbs on a horse and lovelier than star.
We lost that game. No matter. Won another. Lost again
and went back talking fondly of your four home runs,
triple and single in three games, glowing in the record book.
I came back after poems. They ask me today, here in Havre,
who’s that player you brought here years ago, the hitter?
So few of us are good at what we do, and what we do,
well done or not, seems futile. I’m trying to find Monty
Holden’s barber shop. I want to tell him style in anything,
pitching, hitting, cutting hair, is worth our trying even
if we fail. And when that style, the graceful compact swing
leaves the home crowd hearing its blood and the ball roars off
in night like determined moon, it is our pleasure
to care about something well done. If he doesn’t understand
more than the final score, if he says, “After all, we won,”
I’ll know my hair will not look right after he’s done,
what little hair I have, what little time. And I’ll drive home
knowing his windup was all show, glad I was there years back,
that I was lucky enough to be there when with one swing
you said to all of us, this is how it’s done. The ball jumps
from your bat over and over. I want my poems to jump
like that. All poems. I want to say once to a world that feels
with reason it has little chance, well done. That’s the lie
I cannot shout loud as this local truth: Well done, Mike. Dick.