Baseball in the Grass

n my backyard there was so much grass it could cover 3 acres or more. My brother took hours to mow it while I sat on the riverbank under the white oak tree watching. He’d mow in the shape of a baseball diamond first − even though he wasn’t supposed to, my mom didn’t like that. She said it would ruin the grass. He did it because entertaining me was the only entertainment he had when he was doing that. Then he would STOP.

He’d play baseball in the grass. By himself he would act out an entire baseball game for me. He’d be Babe Ruth and Yogi Berra and all of these baseball names I’d only heard of because he was 15 and knew such things, and I was only 7.

His tale would get bigger and bigger each time he mowed that grass. I swear that Babe Ruth made the Hall of Fame 44 times that summer by my brother’s telling alone. He went there via super fly balls over the O’Malley’s House and once through Rose and Elmer’s broken garage door.

It was a good thing my brother was only telling the story and acting it out for me. Most times he used props he ended up in the Emergency Room. That inevitably meant stitches for sure.

All this time I thought I got all of my stories from my dad. Now I think I might have had one other source.

Did I tell you how Babe hit the flyer that sailed into Mrs. Capitani’s bedroom window when she was dressing? Now there’s a story that’s unforgettable.

−me strauss Letting me be.