tastes like sour when you were expecting sweet,
looks like rain on the last day of school,
sounds like fingernails grating chalkboards,
smells like smoke from a cap gun,
feels like hope ripped away.
About the poem:
We're in the final rounds of travel baseball season for my son's team -- today, Cincinnati; late next week, an eight-day tournament in Indianapolis -- and yesterday, the team played back-to-back games in 100-degree heat. The boys' record was 58-5, with nine tournament wins, and they won their first game of this tournament easily, by slaughter rule. But during the second game, the boys committed eight errors, and the come-from-behind type of victory that they've become known for eluded them.
"We beat ourselves," my son told me afterward. Later, at the hotel, he still looked a little stunned by what had happened. "This feels weird," he said as he walked around the room, as though he wasn't quite sure what to do with himself.
"Just go out there and enjoy the experience," I told him. And he found plenty to enjoy at the hotel later: a wrestling match with the father of another boy (I think this man took six of the kids on, separately); a steak dinner with his grandparents, at a restaurant where a former Yankees player was dining nearby (they were able to say hi to the man as he passed by, which made Sam's night); "Angry Birds" tournaments with his friends (a game you can buy for iPhone or iPod Touch); and all-you-can-eat pancakes, bacon, and sausage for breakfast at the hotel buffet.
Happy writing, everyone! And happy weekend!
Update, Saturday evening: Sam's team beat a Florida team and won its pool, and with it, a bearth in the final rounds on Sunday morning. Game is at 8 a.m. Ohio time (7 a.m. our time), and the field is an hour away, which means we'll be leaving at 6 a.m. Ohio time for practice. The boys face a really competitive team from Houston. Fingers crossed.