Again, a favorite poem. Perhaps you have someone special with whom you would care to share it for Fathers Day…
Sign for my Father Who Stressed the Bunt
On the rough diamond,
the hand-cut field below the dog lot and barn,
we rehearsed the strict technique
of bunting. I watched from the infield,
the mound, the backstop
as your left hand climbed the bat, your legs
and shoulders squared toward the pitcher.
You could drop it like a seed
down either baseline. I admired your style,
but not enough to take my eyes off the bank
that served as our center-field fence.
Years passed, three leagues of organized ball,
no few lives. I could homer
into the garden beyond the bank,
into the left-field lot of Carmichael Motors,
and still you stressed the same technique,
the crouch and spring, the lead arm absorbing
just enough impact. The whole tiresome pitch
about basics never changing,
and I never learned what you were laying down.
Like a hand brushed across the bill of a cap,
let this be the sign
I’m getting a grip on the sacrifice.
– David Bottoms
The poem first appeared in David Bottoms’ 1983 collection, In a U-Haul North of Damascus. I discovered it in A Good Man: Fathers and Sons in Poetry and Prose, ed. Irv Broughton. NY: Ballantine Books, 1993. p. 104.