With their high flying, I suppose it’s not a bad 
nickname for a baseball team. Once, I had an experience 
with a certain Satélite. But it wasn’t high flying. 
High driving maybe. Intoxicated by the bus driver’s 
bends up hills, zooming farther away from 
where I had planned to go. I wonder if home 
run balls are transported by invisible buses. 
Invisible satellites. I wonder what baseballs’ 
lives are like, before the game. If they would prefer to stay 
cozied up to their siblings, there in their boxes. 
If being hit over the fence is actually the opposite 
of the pinnacle of their lifespan. Transportation 
against their will. Today at the game, I maintain 
this case: that baseballs and I have some commonality— 
if not the red popping out our skin, a journey undesired.

Cameron Haramia is a California-born Hoosier, who heard a rumor that Indiana will house an MLB team with a mascot that is out of this world. Haramia’s poems have appeared in Construction Literary Magazine, TL;DR, Leopardskin & Limes, Rabid Oak, and elsewhere.