Jordan can steal bases
better than any other kid in our school.
My father used to leave work early
to take us to the park,
teach us how to steal bases,
catch a fly ball without flinching,
how to hit grounders.
You can try different stances,
but the neutral stance is my favorite.
He looked out across the field.
No one can guess where you might hit.
But you can try different ones
until you find what’s comfortable.
I don’t love playing baseball,
but with Jordan it was always fun.
He’s so fast, if he can get on base,
he can steal the next one.
It’s all in the hips
that’s where the power is.
Jordan learned it right away,
his stable front foot,
the slight lift, the swing;
it’s like the baseball
just gets huge in his eyes.
One day, when I struck out
three times in a row,
found myself crying
in the dugout,
Jordan was there,
telling me:
Don’t quit. Try again.
Like a real friend should.
The best part was always after.
We went to Farrel’s for triple scoops
and talked about Rickey Henderson
stealing bases like no one else.
Spring afternoons,
baseball and ice cream,
the sun cutting through the fog
was enough for my father
to leave work early.
I think in some ways
it was harder for my dad
when Jordan’s parents
decided we should stop
spending time together
because they thought my
mom wasn’t safe anymore.
Our dads yelled at each other,
and we didn’t really know
what to do, so we just
stopped talking.