Author's Note: First in a series. (h/t to RememberThePhitans for the idea for the first poem).
Past a diving Wigginton
Most of us are parents of mediorcrities, and
we stand on the sidelines, hoping for lightning to strike,
that some reified understandings
of evolution and divine will
finds our sons' arms struck by lightning
so they might emerge form the primordial soup of baseball
and crawl toward some drafty payday
by climbing over the gilled webbed feet
of drowning, talentless maladaptive wretches,
out for a breath of fresh air, or worse: to learn and have fun.
The relentless sort continues until the starts don't fit
and the break of a ball fractures spirits, just to the right of the bag
past a diving Wigginton, when
A father's dawning eyes squint into a painful wince
belying a mental note made
to find some winter time to talk about next steps
and something else to do.