Opening Ceremonies

Opening Ceremonies Kyle Minor An astronaut, Buzz Aldrin, the second man on the moon, stood on the pitcher's mound. He gave a speech--I don't remember the details--but I imagine there was talk of Saturn V rockets, and lunar orbiters, and landing modules, and one small step for man. Moon rocks, moon dust, craters, scant gravity. Or maybe he wasn't Buzz Aldrin at all. Maybe he was the astronaut who snuck a golf ball and driver into space and hit a half-mile tee shot, or could be farther. I was standing with my Youth League team near the first base dugout, all of us weary from the ten-block parade, dressed in our green jerseys, clean white pants, green stirrups, new black cleats. I was dreaming of equipment--black catcher's mask, orange shin guards, black chest protector--all the tools of ignorance, the tools of my chosen trade, catcher, mythic strongman crouched behind a swinging bat, waiting to catch a speeding projectile, to stop it with my body if need be, like my father had taught me. I was well trained in the art of falling, of diving, of throwing to second, of blocking home plate with my body, hoping, even, for a base http://www.deepdyve.com/assets/images/DeepDyve-Logo-lg.png River Teeth: A Journal of Nonfiction Narrative Ashland University

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Publisher
Ashland University
Copyright
Copyright © 2005 by the University of Nebraska Press.
ISSN
1548-3339
Publisher site
See Article on Publisher Site

Abstract

Kyle Minor An astronaut, Buzz Aldrin, the second man on the moon, stood on the pitcher's mound. He gave a speech--I don't remember the details--but I imagine there was talk of Saturn V rockets, and lunar orbiters, and landing modules, and one small step for man. Moon rocks, moon dust, craters, scant gravity. Or maybe he wasn't Buzz Aldrin at all. Maybe he was the astronaut who snuck a golf ball and driver into space and hit a half-mile tee shot, or could be farther. I was standing with my Youth League team near the first base dugout, all of us weary from the ten-block parade, dressed in our green jerseys, clean white pants, green stirrups, new black cleats. I was dreaming of equipment--black catcher's mask, orange shin guards, black chest protector--all the tools of ignorance, the tools of my chosen trade, catcher, mythic strongman crouched behind a swinging bat, waiting to catch a speeding projectile, to stop it with my body if need be, like my father had taught me. I was well trained in the art of falling, of diving, of throwing to second, of blocking home plate with my body, hoping, even, for a base

Journal

River Teeth: A Journal of Nonfiction NarrativeAshland University

Published: Mar 11, 2005

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