A baseball contains 330 yards of yarn
coiled inside its body. My son has at least
that many nerves, if not more,
all pointed toward home plate.
I watch him prepare for T-ball practice
with as much concentration
as a 6-year old can muster.
When he throws, the ball never knows
where it’s going. Let’s not talk of velocity,
the placement of thumb and middle finger
along tight, red stitches.
Save talk of revolutions for another day.
Throw the ball, catch the ball—that’s it.
Imagine the little-boy grip
gripping these covered
strands of wool, almost unbelievable
as he cocks his cap to the side,
and lets the ball fly
not caring at all where it lands.
(This is a found poem from Southwest Airlines’ Spirit magazine)