-the no designated hitter rule-

from the old house, the ocean

is a fastball away.

well, a line-drive away.

from the roadside, the ball drops

like a sinker toward the plate;

when raining as seen in the box from the left side

it’s a natural spitter,––

legal in a ballpark like this.

in my time, with Lucia Nono in the middle of the benchseat,

we'd drive on a hot frozen rope to the beaches

and from there to the roadside stands along Route 6 for fried clams.

we'd eat them in the car and then we’d go home to change-up.

later, we'd attend a night game under the lights at the Ponta Delgada Drive-In

or take a ride out to the Narrows for a twi-night at the Reservation, where

the Wampanoag nation lived, made love, raised their young,
hunted the forest there for wild berries and plentiful game,
fished the great Watuppa Ponds, and in-between found the time

to wage a war for their existence against the malignant Whites

whom the Wampanoag people called: the "Coat-men".

It’s the pine-tar scent of the clearing

and the fragrance of fresh standing water, where
the dashboard radio broadcast the good news:

"Malzone stands in...takes ball two low and away...
evens the count at two and two...
third-bagger lined-out to shallow center in the 2nd
and doubled off the left field wall in the 5th
driving in the lone run for the "Hose"...––
Jensen steps off the bag at first...
Larsen from the stretch...the pitch..."