Rounding first base, with his eyes on the whites of the second baseman’s eyes.
Rounding second base, with his eyes on the whites of the third baseman’s eyes.
Rounding third base, and Denny falls shrieking over the foul line.
You see his hand shoot up to his forehead and the blood worm down his arm.
An idle shot from somewhere across the lake,
fired for the report,
fired at the sun for all we knew.
Back in school two days later,
a veritable god descended, proof
swollen at the hairline like an egg.
Strange memory. And they called the game
like it was rain.
Shit, we were ahead!