ken griffey jr. on cardstock
i spend too much of my wife’s salary
on late-night ebay binges,
hunting cardboard redemption.
ken griffey jr.—
bat slung over his shoulder
like he knew he’d save us.
redeem a whole generation
of collectors with a papered smile.
i buy doubles. triples.
the same swing
fossilized in cardboard strata
pressed by a dozen brands
now extinct.
the virtual hunt’s not the same—
no waxy wrapper,
no chalky gum crumbling between bites.
I promised myself I’d stop.
i’m taking four hits now
to relive one single from my youth.
mail hits the box at 3:17.
i get home at 4.
she’s home by 4:09.
i hide the envelope
under an offer for more car insurance.
tell her it’s another political survey.
sometimes i wonder
if the seller’s wife watches him print the label
and shakes her head the same way.
i wonder
if griffey knows
his true value, beyond stats
and dollars.
He was the last thing
that ever felt like luck.
***
To Hurt Without Touching
Ty Cobb, the Hall of Famer, used to sit in the dugout
sharpening his cleats with a long file, honing them
to steak knives. He stared down the catcher,
daring him to block the plate.
Cobb was probably an asshole. I don’t know.
I’ve never met someone that dangerous.
Still, he made it into the Hall of Fame.
When she came home from another night out,
I already had half my side of the closet cleared out.
I sat on the bed, staring at her, unzipping and re-zipping
a duffle bag. We went to bed in silence.
For days, conversations ricocheted off my side of the closet,
settled in her designer clothes,
like moths that rot silk from the inside.
I’m sorry, she said. And we held each other until
my closet looked full again.
Cobb was maniacal off the field too,
made risky investments in Coca Cola and GM.
I asked if she knew Ty Cobb was a real person,
not just some myth to sell tickets.
She shook her head, smiled, and continued folding whites.
Maybe Cobb’s psychology only works on catchers.
That night, she didn’t come home.
Or maybe the stories were just lore for ticket sales.
When Cobb died, no one was there to inherit his wealth.
He left everything to strangers.
I texted her at 3 a.m.: Where are you?
No response. Just the blinking message:
UNREAD.
***
Patrick G. Roland is a writer and educator living with cystic fibrosis. He explores life’s experiences through poetry and storytelling, seeking to inspire others in the classroom and through writing. His work appears or is forthcoming in Hobart, scaffold, 3Elements, Maudlin House, Trampoline, and others.
