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Halm Ave, Los Angeles

Halm Ave, Los Angeles 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 http://www.deepdyve.com/assets/images/DeepDyve-Logo-lg.png Appalachian Review University of North Carolina Press

Halm Ave, Los Angeles

Appalachian Review , Volume 46 (3) – May 28, 2019

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Publisher
University of North Carolina Press
Copyright
Copyright © Berea College
ISSN
1940-5081

Abstract

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

Journal

Appalachian ReviewUniversity of North Carolina Press

Published: May 28, 2019

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