By Ronald Ardissone
It's fifth period history and I just ate lunch.
The window is open
And the breeze is welcomed.
I can see the man with silver hair and sunglasses
riding the green monster.
Amador by name, steers the monster
around the pitcher's mound.
My yell is kept inside,
"Don't get too close to the pitcher's mound!"
He never does.
I trod on to sixth period.
Will 2:45 ever show up on the wall?
I walk past the gym.
Is #39 still hanging in the dry room?
Is it 2:45 yet?
Riinnngg!!!
A reprieve from purgatory.
Down the ramp, books hurriedly pushed into my locker,
race for the gym, dress and then
to the far end of the football field.
The green monster is returning to the cage.
Amador smiles and waves.
I praise the green monster's and his master's work.
Laced up, hat on, I slowly cross the white line
and look down.
The green has changed the color
of my spikes.
Like smelling garlic from Nana's kitchen;
popcorn when you enter the theater;
incense at the mass:
There is no better aroma than the "first cut."
Am I in baseball heaven?
"Mom, I'm home!"
"What's that green stuff all over your shoes?"