Halm Ave, Los Angeles
1965: Sandy Koufax hurlsfastballs that cracklelike limp-wristedcopper wires swayingabove the lawn. My father,only nine, lips raw from pineapple,dances in rhythmto the transistor radioblaring on the sidewalk.
Koufax shakes off Roseboro.My father’s coke bottle glassesfall into brown glass.He comes set.Hands that will puncha man for smoking in a mine shaftand feet that will achefrom steel-toed boots, silent.The delivery.The left arm flails,the right leg lifts to his chest.He falls into the grass, laughing.Sandy paints the corner, strike three.
It is 1965 and my father is nine,miming the motions of perfection,not yet knowing the echoes of Watts,where cars flamed and National Guardsmenshot at boys six years older.Though he choked on coal-dustand skunked UMW beer, [End Page 46] he is always nine, tearing up dead sod,barely beating the tag,a belly-flop across home. [End Page 47]
Eric Janken’s poetry has been in Southern Cultures, Regarding Arts & Letters, and Aethlon: Journal of Sport Literature, and his interviews and reviews have appeared in Carolina Quarterly. He is a graduate of Appalachian State University.
