Friday, 9 December 2016

T-ball Wars

The junior squad
sit along the bottom of the bank
watching          in shell shock               silence.
Sammy, their best troop
                                       carried off
the diamond field
on a litter made from
mummies and daddies’ arms.


The captain
scratches her flat nose
touches the tongue of her cap
like she’s seen her older brother do. 
She huffs deeply-slow,
surrenders again 
to Saturday morning conscript.


The superstar sibling –
‘Smash-It Siaki’ – 
gives her an upward nod
and flutters his fingers   along his arm
                                                             from the sideline
Her eyebrows furrow at
the hand signal orders.


She picks up her wooden weapon,
            marches to enemy lines.
Her eyes scan the territory:
bases loaded
            infield infantry
            crouched and armed
            with hollowed gloves,
                                                          outfield cavalry
                                                          ready to charge at big hits.
She knows the drill:
            swings the bat side to side
            bounces from her knees
            loosens her shoulders
            bends her wrists.


Her comrades chant her name
and their team colours. 


Whoosh…
whoosh…
whoosh!


            Her helmet bounces off the turf.

Another casualty.


Published in 'Landfall 232' Nov 2016

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