Pitching pennies and then nickels <br />and finally quarters; <br />it was the big leagues. <br />And like the majors, <br />it is all about form <br />like a Cy Young winner <br />you have to be one with your body <br />as you aim for that line, <br />the swing of the wrist <br />“it’s all in the wrist baby” <br />would get the coin inside that line <br />engraved upon a concrete sidewalk... <br />As the coin floated like a feather <br />through the air and land inside that line; <br />it was one of the most beautiful sights <br />of my childhood, the coin would come <br />to rest, nestled like an infant in a crib. <br />A liner is what we called it and usually <br />this is what it would take <br />to win those scattered coins <br />tossed from us underprivileged souls. <br />We would stand outside on the corner <br />of Loomis & Taylor and aim for the heavens. <br />Big payoff, at least 3 to 4 dollars <br />that was big money in those days. <br />To go home with a pocket full of change <br />the jingle was as sweet as jolly ranchers <br />but better because it brought the <br />winner hope that things <br />were turning for the best. <br />As for the losers, we would go home <br />feeling the same as we did <br />when we started our game <br />of pitching our few and only coins. <br />Hunger still resided deep inside our bellies, <br />and empty pockets teased us <br />because we all knew <br />a hell of a lot of poverty <br />was waiting for us at home...<br /><br />Charles Lara<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/big-leagues/
