Just another balmy Sunday morning sandlot game
“hey batter batter, SWING BATTER”
a loud crack and snap of the bat was all it took
like a rocket the ball sailed, higher
higher. Our eyes in radar mode track its path.
Charlie watched like a cat stalks a bird
the ball falling downward faster, as if it had eyes
floating left then right then left again and then,
Crash, glass shatters, glistening chips flying,
five pairs of feet running in every direction
At 10 years old, Charlie hit the mother of all windshields.
Kelvin Sextor’s classic 1958 shinny blue Chevy BelAir
The smell of Simonize wax and pinetree deodorizer
Heavy like moms over sprayed perfume.
Yep, it was a sight to behold I tell ya.
Two penguins, arms flapping we waddled to town
Like magnets, the vanilla and chocolate pulls us in
“Double malted for me” Charlie chuckles impishly.
The soda jerk just grits his teeth and grumbles,
white hat tilted, chocolate stains on his shirt.
In that big old red booth, we giggled so loud.
Hands flying all over recapping the crashing windshield.
from nowhere “HE” appeared, greasy burger in hand
Kevin Sextor, all 5 feet 10 inches there, in front of us
our lives passing before us, shaking like Charlie’s grandpa.
“So you broke a windshield heck who cares”
the smell of onions burning eyes as he spoke.
“happens everyday guys, done it myself once”
covering our face trying not to laugh, catsup on his face.
“by the way, who’s car was it?” the words hit like a rock
With fork in hand, a gladiator in the ring
ready to die with glory, stood Charlie
Creeping to the door I crouched, handle in hand
two warriors set to battle, our verbal missile launched,
“Yours!” we screamed running, sliding out the door
The rest is history, in the books so to speak
backsides sore for a week unable to sit
25 more yards to mow in the summer heat
two warriors survived to tell the tale
Charlie and me, ballplayers, soldiers, friends forever