An Alchemy of Words

Balls

"Balls"

They say Fidel Castro

      watches baseball,

      that Great American Pastime.

He can throw a pitch like anybody,

      they say.

      Could'a struck out good ol' Babe Ruth

      with a blindfold tied across his eyes, in fact.

Yeah, "Cannonball" Castro on the mound,

      eyeing his Cuban catcher through the cloth an'

      shruggin' off the fastball

      'cause he always liked the curveball better.

Ol' Babe coughin' up the juice

      of that rented Cuban cigar,

      his face melting first from Dickie Nixon to Reagan

      to that damned ol' Jon-boy Friggin' Kennedy

      and him swinging on that first pitch,

      feeling' stupid as it cuts inside

      and glances off the bat, just above the knuckles,

      to fly off into the crowd,

      a fat, round dove

      with stitches criss-crossing it, blood-like.

Second pitch and Ol' Babe don't look so sure, no more,

      but he's still chewing the heck outa

      the rump of that cigar, the juice

      drooling onto his cleats like foam from the

      chops of Ol' Yeller.

      Jon-boy don't even swing at this one.

      After all, he's gotta worry 'bout

      the shattering' of the American Dream, right?

Yeah, crazy "Cannonball" Castro's blindfolded, alright,

      but he's still got one pitch t' throw.

[first published in Saskatchewan Writers' Guild, WindScript, Volume 11. Awarded the Currie-Hyland Prize for excellence in poetry.]

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AUTHOR'S NOTES
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I spent Easter in Cuba when I was 4. Of course, there was no Easter in Cuba - there it was Children's Day. At the time, foreigners visiting Cuba didn't typically bring their children. So my sister and I were the talk of Havana. A thousand pinched cheeks and extra desserts and pickle sandwiches. A dozen years later, this poem came to me, still full of sugar, spit and pickle juice.