
The crack of the bat
met my forehead, is what I remember,
and I went down, strange red tears running
across my left eye, and I got six stitches,
after, somehow, reaching a doctor in white.
I was about six, in Pennsylvania then,
and didn’t know anything about baseball
or the Fourth of July, but we had gone
to a parade in the neighboring town
and there were all these cars parked in thick grass,
and teams of horses following flags
and bugles, wagons and drums. I have no
idea now, what all I saw or what I’m
remembering, except for the deep grass
and the sunlight, then finding this broken bat
by the empty field, and taking it home,
how my friend Benny was thrilled by
a free bat, even if it was split, and wanted
to hit some rocks, pretending to be big leagues.
But I didn’t know about them, or batting—
how a marvelous swing could come around
full circle, with such power, after a rock.
I know I can say, for sure, that I saw the light.
About the Author: Dan Overgaard was born and raised in Thailand. He attended Westmont College, dropped out, moved to Seattle, became a transit operator, then managed transit technology projects and programs. He’s now retired, and probably gardening or catching up on reading. His poems have appeared in Mobius, Santa Clara Review, Across The Margin, The Galway Review, pioneertown, Poets Reading the News, Sweet Lit, The High Window and elsewhere. Read more at: danovergaard.com.
Image Credit: Marjory Collins “Greenbelt, Maryland. Member of the Greenbelt baseball team picking out a bat. On Sunday the team plays that of a neighboring town” (1942) Public domain image courtesy of the Library of Congress




