Mike Schmidt

My home, humble brick, guardian of home plate, our field, our childhood turf.

My window, atop the pinched garage, royal blue trim--a forgivable boast, the lookout for players.

Happily, a game tonight. A lucky collection of freckled faces, generous older siblings, a beefy champion and me, the mascot. My ache to be part of the fray, revealed with a tightly gripped miniature Phillies bat.   

Teams, parsed out with care. Rules agreed. Play begins, dreams according to its player. For me, a hit with my little bat--to be a worthy player in the game.  Encouraging cheers, soft toss from a shortened mound, my dream comes true. I’m on top of the world.

The ice cream man, first announced with carnival sounds, building in volume, scattering players to collect payment from easy found jars, silver coins plucked first.

Time out. Pushing plastic stems, hoisting sherbert in dotted cardboard tubes. Wiping frothy orange with dirty tops of hands into already worn sleeves. Arms resting on knees, like a line of grasshopper legs on the curb. Sweat and sweet mingled, doves lull us to remain.

A grey sedan lopes into view--like a boat, cutting through the thick summer air, wake in tow. My car. My dad’s. Coming back home.

Mike Schmidt, 3rd base, my favorite Phillies player--his crisp white uniform, red pinstripes, number 20 proudly on his chest. He is like my dad. They are protectors of good. Strong, puffy hair, sideburns, playful glint in the eye. Unrufflable.. Protectors of my world.

I am safe. I belong. I have everything I need.