The Kings needed a center fielder or they would have to forfeit the game, and though I struck out every time I was up, and spit on my chin and the oversized uniform that wasn’t mine was trying to look like a homerun son who could never disappoint the fans who seemed to me to be uniforms of my father, baseball was my opportunity to wonder about what it takes to hit the kind of homerun that’d show me how I trivialize the son I am, by intentionally coming up short up with reasons for my being a kind of illegitimate father to the orphaned son I perceive myself to be. But as usual the only ball I could see was my head, which like a ball, was full of valuable strings. Imagine, for a moment, hitting a baseball that has nothing inside it. My kind of park is a small park.

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