Betzi Richardson
Double Play
for my father
Summer. I used to sit and keep my Dad
company. I read while he watched TV.
Baseball grew on me. Male bodies beautifully
muscled, but not too much; the steroid scandal had
blown over. I came to love the secret codes,
the touches, taps, studied glances – the flexes
and swings of the home run hitters, those apex
predators contrasting with the leaping, mountain goat
outfielders, flinging their bodies through air.
Meanwhile, my Dad lingered. How many more
at bats will he have? Who or what’s keeping score?
Top of the ninth. I steal a glance at him warily.
Dozing. His white hair softly breaks in a wave
over his forehead. In sleep his face has gone opaque.
Betzi Richardson is a visual artist and poet, living in LA. She taught at Santa Monica College and has a Masters in English. Her poems have been published in her chapbook,
This Desert Inclination, and in journals:
Antioch Review, Slant, Artlife, Pinyon, Upstairs at Duroc, Transformation, Nantahala Review, and others.