by Earl J. Wilcox
Baseball labor talks to end the lockout resumed Thursday for the first time in 1½ months with little evident progress during a bargaining session that lasted about an hour, jeopardizing a timely start to spring training. Major League Baseball imposed the lockout on Dec. 2 as soon as the five-year collective bargaining contract expired, a few hours after talks broke off. —Los Angeles Times, January 13, 2022
Your tinny voice throws me off.
You stand slightly slumped holding
a baseball bat. Your face is a bit
out of focus though my macular
eyes make most pictures seem dim.
I have trouble figuring where
you and I are: a ball park, a small
dugout, perhaps just a dirt yard,
the kind I know well from childhood.
We sit very close. I see the bat, its
stark beauty of slightly tanned oak
or is it maple or some wood I see only
in my dreams. We chat, but I cannot tell
what we say. Man, your quirky smile
radiates warmth through shaded
teeth of twilight in dreamland.
You talk a lot about a pitcher’s
knuckleball you once hit. I mumble
a reply and just want to know more
about Enos or Gibby—and the lockout.
You shrug then take a sliver-looking
candy bar from your pocket. You put
the bar in your mouth, blow, cheeks
slightly puff out. I feel & hear a wail
sounding like Wabash Cannonball
or an old gospel tune clearly off-key.
My Alexa gently nudges me with music
and some NPR news, mid-January morning.
Baseball lovers all will have no trouble puzzling out who appeared in Earl Wilcox’s dream.
