A Elegy for Babe Ruth, Sunflower Seeds, and My Thighs

When I was in fourth grade I wanted to be Babe Ruth.
I wasn't like girls who play
soft ball. They learned to peeled of neon head-bands--
painted nails-- shared shredded bubble gum
in the dug out-- wore Adidas sports bags-- 
Not me. And I never felt like a girl who played
softball. I pretended I played baseball.
Baseball like crisp hot dogs that wear mustard-ketchup braids.
I played baseball like peanut shells under sandals.
-- I carried my cleats in my hands and 
swung them around like jump rope or Strawberry
licorice on the windy jeep ride home 
on a night in June when we lost in the ninth
inning. I was the last to strike out. 
There was something that made
the ending of a night game seem nostalgic
and eternal. Something in the big blaring lights
that blurred out the stars--
We had m & m rice crispies after the game.
I proudly ate four and piled up the wrappers.
I leaned up against 
rusty chain fence away from the rest of the team
who was talking about how
fat our fifth grade teacher Mrs. Baron was.
I brushed the dust off my knees-- wore
the streak of dirt from sliding
into second like a battle scar. I ran my fingers
over the way my stomach billowed gently 
over the elastic of my baseball pants.
I thought about how Babe Ruth probably
never noticed being fat. I wondered if 
looked at himself in the mirror and knew
he would be an icon for chubby girls
who love food and batting clean-up. 
I asked my dad if Babe Ruth chewed bubble gum
and he said he probably chewed tobacco... but
that he might have liked sun flower seeds.
He bought me a bag and I practiced spitting 
them off our porch. I wondered what it would
be like if Babe Ruth was a girl. I wondered
if she would worry about how her jeans
always wore away between her thighs.
At bat I never sat on the bench.
I put my fingers through the fence--
watched every pitch tumble into a 
catcher's mitt in a timid flourish of dust--
waiting for my turn.
I lived between the chalk lines of the batter's box.
I have never felt a sense of vitality
like the moments before the pitch.
The practice swing-- the images of Babe Ruth
pointing toward left field and nodding.
I never thought about my thighs in the batters
box. I never thought about cheeks or how
other girls seemed to be born
knowing how to be beautiful in a way I never
wanted to be. I ate like a King in the batter's box--
I put relish on hot dogs and dug
plastic spoons into banana splits.
I was cracker jack- July- Jupiter beetles
and juice boxes in between those
lines. 

I haven't picked up 
a baseball bat for years but
I will tell you I still play baseball.
I still want to be Babe Ruth but
I lost his thighs and his stacks
of rice crispy wrappers and I
never even liked the taste of sunflower seeds.

On a night in July I still 
ride home in the jeep and my dad still 
pretends I play baseball and not softball.
We play catch just not with gloves.
I buy him strawberry licorice
and there's not lights to out sing
the stars.