by Robert E. Petras
“Two hands!” cried my dad,
A dude who grew up
When mitts were as flat as Biblical Earth.
Even a pitcher named Mordecai Brown
Used two hands, and his nickname
Was Three Fingers.
Pop ups, grounders, line drives, Baltimore
. Chops—
Did not matter—two hands
Was my old man’s mantra.
I had a spanking new Rawlings,
Had a pocket you could pull out
A rabbit but not one over
My old man. The mitt
Was stiff as a wedding
Invitation. Beat it and beat it
I did and steeped that stubborn hide
With saddle soap, butter, Mazola,
Vicks Vapo Rub, 30 weight,
Anything lubey. Over and over
I pounded it with a rubber mallet,
Ran it over and over with my bike
Until that leather went limp
As overcooked spaghetti,
So soft you could use it for a pillow,
Which I did,
Firm enough to snag a rope,
Which I did,
A leaping stab in centerfield,
But I threw it to the wrong cutoff.
“Use your brain!” my dad yelled,
“Both sides of it!”