Mike Gomez's Gracilis
  Annik Adey-Babinski

Sitting behind home plate with a radar gun
and a stats chart, you're switching a pen
into your good hand to record the throw
speed. You're a one-handed wonder
now as you were three weeks ago—
pitching closers before Doc opened
your knee just above the shin, took
out a good ligament to put in your elbow.
Uncle Rudy behind you with the parents,
who are also marking hits a few rows
back. Sanchez isn’t cleaning up like you could
but by the time you’re healed, school will be over
and his numbers will have surpassed your own.
Your mother knows this, but Uncle Rudy won’t
stop telling the story of how you pitched
three shutout innings in relief, saved the game
and the championship. He tells it every Sunday
as you stare into your meal, rearranging
arroz moro with a fork in your left hand.

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