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1965: Sandy Koufax hurls fastballs that crackle like limp-wristed copper wires swaying above the lawn. My father, only nine, lips raw from pineapple, dances in rhythm to the transistor radio blaring on the sidewalk. Koufax shakes off Roseboro. My father’s coke bottle glasses fall into brown glass. He comes set. Hands that will punch a man for smoking in a mine shaft and feet that will ache from steel-toed boots, silent. The delivery. The left arm flails, the right leg lifts to his chest. He falls into the grass, laughing. Sandy paints the corner, strike three. It is 1965 and my father is nine, miming the motions of perfection, not yet knowing the echoes of Watts, where cars flamed and National Guardsmen shot at boys six years older. Though he choked on coal-dust and skunked UMW beer, 46 he is always nine, tearing up dead sod, barely beating the tag, a belly-flop across home. ERIC JANKEN
Appalachian Review – University of North Carolina Press
Published: May 28, 2019
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