Released


When the parent club let go of Bobby Dodson
With a month left in that minor league's
Bad-buses-and-thunderstorms season,
He made the ritual call home.
Hollering "I'm done" into the receiver, hanging up
Before his mother could begin dispensing
Before his girlfriend hauled out his scrapbooks
Before his father grabbed a stale panatela.

In the club house everyone mouthed the good luck things
You say to someone who's hit the wall at Double A.
Every ballplayer there knew every scenario:
Which base to throw to,
When to take an extra lead off first,
Which pitch at which speed was likely coming next.
It was every guy's taut psyche that was a problem,
That was helpless as a barely feathered chick,
That was thinking positively in the middle
Of the worst slump, that could only try harder,
That kept telling jokes when guys' arms went dead
Or they pulled a hamstring or broke a bone. True believers,
Good old boys, overachievers, diamonds that stayed rough--
take your pick.

He couldn't hit a slider. Words were bullshit.

The parking lot pocked with red and blue, second-engine
Mustangs and Trans-Ams. Dudemobiles.
His own car smelled like a tannery, a cheeseburger, and
A bedroom with no windows, but, as he threw his gear
In the back seat, he found himself looking forward to
The driving--the standard shifts, the automatic turns.