When I was eight, I was a god.
We all were.
We didn't have rules then about inning limits 
or “the play's over once a fielder touches the ball.”
I hit 27 dingers with an aluminum bat Mom & Dad 
bought me at the hardware store.
It pinged and every old man grimaced, waiting for a crack 
like a knee, like a belt.
We don't have any of those home run balls.
We didn't keep things then.
One moment bled and became another moment and it all bled together.
Or maybe it just bled.
I juiced up on soft serve and kept running 
after every hit until I slid across home.
Little bits of gravel in everything.
The coach wore a shirt that said "I'm naked underneath 
these clothes" to practice.
His arm was in a cast from punching out a window.
The dandelions ran unchecked, an outfield of sun. 
We played until we ascended.
Some guys became junkies.
Some became accountants.
Some sang backup before insurrecting. 
We played until we had lightning in our fingertips.
I am talking about practice.
I am talking about godliness that expires.
I am talking about how my knee doesn't work 
after Marquis landed on it last week at basketball.
It cracks now.
I am talking to you, muffled, through Ace bandages.
I am talking about gods.
How they lived. How they died. 

MITCHELL NOBIS is a writer and K-12 teacher in Metro Detroit. His poetry has appeared in Whale Road Review, Variant Literature, Words & Sports Quarterly, and others. He facilitates Teachers as Poets for the National Writing Project and hosts the Wednesday Night Sessions reading series. Find him at @MitchNobis ormitchnobis.com or wincing in pain on a basketball court.