by Mark Shoenfield
On the beach in Cape May, New Jersey,
my teenage son and I begin a baseball
catch in the early evening
We are way back from the water, where the sand still retains the day’s warmth
and other beach goers have long since departed
Gulls peck at the sand looking for morsels as the surf gently breaks in its rhythmic pattern
My wife sits and watches us from a distance,
forming the unbalanced triangle that is our life
We increase the distance between our long tosses
My leather glove snaps a sharp crack as it embraces the hurling sphere
I return a well rehearsed overhand throw that has many years of practice behind it
Our long shadows lengthen as the sun slowly sets and we increase our pace, throwing with greater velocity and heightened focus
A white three-masted schooner skirts the horizon
A kite ripples in the increasing breezes high above my son’s head
The tethered string being held by a far-away girl
Puffs of white sand arise around the ankles of my son on every toss
His skinny, well tanned body and freckled nose are absorbed in the moment
Low throws hug the sand and kick up grains
that stings my shins
An older departing couple apologizes for interrupting us as they pass between my son and me, lugging their
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beach chairs, floral towels and a large white canvas bag
I silently thank them for the opportunity to rest my now tiring arm
A slight chill in the salty air denotes a change
the summer is ending,
as is my middle age as well as my son’s innocence
Ready or not, we all have a new season to embrace
Originally published in The Chicago Baseball Magazine.