Arvilla Fee

Left Field

He’s smaller than most fifth-graders. Clings to the chain-link fence, watching me coach little league. His jeans torn, sneakers a grayish-white. He mimics the players on the field, pretending to throw or catch, although he has neither mitt nor ball. He doesn’t belong to any of the parents I know, and he always disappears before the end of the game—except the day he doesn’t. As I put away the bats, I startle to find him standing near the dugout. “Can I hit once?” he asks, swiping a fringe of dirty blond hair off his forehead. I notice a small cut above his eyebrow. “Uh, sure,” I say. I hand him a bat and go to the mound. He swings at the first pitch—too late. The next pitch, the same. He steps closer to the plate and adjusts the bat. On the third pitch, the crack echoes across the park. I watch the ball sail above over my head, beyond the fence. I turn around, ready to congratulate him, but he’s gone.

endless sky
the scoreboard still
zero to one

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About the Author

Arvilla Fee teaches English Composition for Clark State College and is the poetry editor for the San Antonio Review. She has published poetry, photography, and short stories in numerous presses. Her poetry book, The Human Side, was released by Wipf & Stock December 2022. For Arvilla, writing produces the greatest joy when it connects us to each other.