A quick poem about kickball

And the surge of adrenaline you get when you're up to kick.

Childhood memories can supply a wealth of creative inspiration for writers. William Blake’s masterful Songs of Innocence and of Experience comes to mind, or more recently, Daniel Nayeri’s novel Everything Sad Is Untrue. These and many other books capture something of the wonders and fears of growing up.

In my own experience, though, writing about youth has always been a challenge. First there’s the issue of forgetting the details of what actually happened. Then there’s the strong temptation to sentimentalize one’s childhood, to gloss every memory in sugary nostalgia… 🥲

I suppose this explains why some writers avoid directly addressing the subject of their childhood. It can be risky territory, an artistic minefield of kitsch and cliques.

But I promised you a poem about kickball!

Yes. At some point, I decided if I was going to write about childhood, it could not attempt to be serious, believing that humor or whimsey might protect the work from overgrown gushiness.

This is only a theory, of course. But I tried it out with a recent poem about the memory of playing kickball during middle school recess. Perhaps kickball triggers distressing memories for some—my wife, for instance.

For me it was all about the rush of stepping up to home plate for my chance to smash the ball to utter smithereens. Here it is.

Grin

I brush the dust off
home plate with my sneaker

when a voice from the dugout
warns the outfielders:

Get back! Get back!
They do—all three

turn and run for their lives
in the shaggy grass

as I grin and eye
the floppy red kickball

tumbling down from
the pitcher’s mound,

just asking for it.