Sit in the stands at a Little League game.
Alone. Not cheering.
With stubble and a gut and cracked sunglasses.
And a child’s ball cap struggling to cover
the middle-aged dough of your face.
Stare at the field. Hear people whisper.
Transient. Pedophile. School shooter.
The mumble of a 911 call.
And watch the cops show up.
Stand over you in a now empty bleacher section.
Demand identification.
Make finger-jabbing accusations.
Describe what they think you do when you’re alone.
Nudge your shoe.
Poke your shoulder.
The less you say, the louder they get.

And now you’re at an impasse.
Do you stay silent? Let them shout at you? Detain you?
Arrest you, even, however wrongful?

Or do you stare down the stormtroopers
and ask them if they know what commotio cordis is?
If they know that a sudden blunt impact to the chest
can cause cardiac arrest?
Like a line drive to the chest of an
overambitious, undercoordinated ten-year-old?

Do you explain that you’re not here for the kids?
Just the equipment.
Do you quiz them,
ask them how many baseballs
a life insurance policy can buy?
Or cleats? Or batting gloves? Or bats,
including those presently resting above hearts
that still have a couple of billion beats left in them?

Do you finally admit, yeah, you’re here for the kids,
not the baseball.
But just the stages of life.
This year, Little League bleachers.
Next year, middle school stands.
After that, high school ballparks.
Maybe even college stadiums,
stretch the fantasy for a few more years.

And do you stand up, twist your cap around,
and jaw with the cops, nose to nose, demanding,
Then what? Then what am I supposed to watch?
Do you kick dirt on their polished shoes?
Maybe chest bump the smaller one?
What am I supposed to watch then?
Do you resist when you’re cuffed and dragged off the bleachers,
grateful that someone is finally making you leave?

Or
maybe you just nod when they goad you.
Apologize, even.
Half-wave to the ump who’s stopped the game.
Shuffle off the bleachers. Walk home.
Kiss the head of a hollow woman.
Accept the remote control.
Sink into the recliner. Deeper into yourself.
And start clicking.
Baseball. Basketball. Soccer. Football. Hockey.
Preseason. Postseason.
College. Pro. International.
There are plenty of other spectator sports.

***

Kiyoshi Hirawa is a poet, writer, and former police officer who was wrongfully terminated after reporting sexual misconduct and rape committed by fellow police officers. Hirawa’s writing focuses on mental health, resiliency, hope, and providing a voice for the unheard, ignored, and overlooked.