At school
there are a few A’s fans
in their jerseys talking loud,
but mostly, everyone is quiet.
At lunch, I sit near the field.
I sketch the Golden Gate.
The long belly of the bridge
stretches from one tower to the other,
and just beyond is where my mom is.
Etan!
It’s Jordan, he’s holding a mitt.
Etan, we need someone to play left.
Jeremy had to go home ’cause his stomach hurts.
Martin holds the ball, stares at me.
I start to shake my head no,
but then something happens.
Maybe it’s the sound of his voice,
or all that’s been happening,
I think, what am I made of?
I stand up,
putt on the mitt,
slowly walk out to left field.
Martin growls at me,
Don’t mess it up.
The field is grass forever
and foggy skies
and too many people.
Martin pitches,
and then
in slow motion,
Josh hits the ball
so hard it goes invisible,
until the moment
I see it coming right for me,
already on its way down.
I hold out my mitt,
feel the eyes of everyone
on my every move.
This is the very last thing
I wanted to happen.
And then, all at once, I feel
the sudden, perfect weight
of the ball, square in the webbing
of the leather mitt.
I smile
because I caught it!
But it doesn’t matter
because by then the earth
is already shaking.
The tremor doesn’t last long,
but enough for everyone to line up
like our drills teach us.
This isn’t the first tremor
to hit us this week,
but
it will be the last.