Rolling sweetly off of vine....

We played stick ball.
Down the hill from where I lived,
we played stick ball on a side street two up from Main.

Heading out the door with sticks in our hands,
a rubber ball in our back pocket
and a cap upon our heads,
my two brothers and I went running down
that dirt road path to the place where the magic was.

The kind of magic that sits and waits and sings
to you in the early morning; the kind of magic
that with every breath you take brings joy; and
the kind of magic that every time you pick up the stick
and swing, brings the roar of the invisible crowd to life.

This magic lived within us then
because we were glove carrying,
baseball loving,
home run sliding boys,
rolling sweetly off of Vine.

McMahon, Salazar, Johnson and Mahoney,
they were already there, warming up as they
did when the darkness moved away into light
by bouncing the rubber ball against the cement wall.
They were already there practicing their slide stopping
run to home plate and shouting,
"hey batter, hey batter, hey batter!"

The kind of shuffle that took the crowds breathe away
because we were glove carrying,
baseball loving,
home run sliding boys,
rolling sweetly off of Vine.

Salazar,
first up to bat,
twirled the rounded stick in his hand
taking the stance from the big leagues
by cuffing his feet against the dirt.

And Mahoney, he was king of the hill that morning,
cupping the ball in the palm of his hand.
Then, like a well-oiled machine,
he side-swiped his way to glory
by moving his arm behind his back
letting the ball side-wind down the pike
towards home plate.

Salazar, that boy could swing, and I, in center field,
could hear the CRACK!

The kind of THUNDER that echoed
all the way to Main because we were
glove carrying,
baseball loving,
home run sliding boys,
rolling sweetly off of Vine.

Salazar, he took off running.
He took off running touching the cement wall
with the tips of his fingers,
and then,
in a straight line
kicked the can in the middle of the street,
round the bend to the front porch tenement steps,
til' finally,
he sprinted the last leg down the chute to home plate.

I chased after the ball as it bounced its way down the street,
and then,
scooped it up in my hands.
I stopped,
turned around,
and then lobbed it to my brother who was waiting.

Waiting in the wings like a prayer
because we were
glove carrying,
baseball loving,
home run sliding boys,
rolling sweetly off of Vine.

Salazar did the dance and with a thud,
the ball landed in the catcher's mitt.
We stopped,
waited,
and then,
McMahon did the sweep of his hands
shouting "SAFE".

That slide.
That home running slide to home plate
left dirt devils in its wake
dusting Salazar from the bottom of his toes
to the top of his neck.
He took his cap and cuffed it upside and down
until the wind was dancing all around.

The wind was dancing all around
because we were
glove carrying,
baseball loving,
home run sliding boys,
rolling sweetly off of Vine.

Glove carrying,
baseball loving,
home run sliding boys,
rolling sweetly off of Vine.

Rolling sweetly off of Vine.