Hot Dogs
I do not eat them any more.
They’re made from what is on the floor.
I do not like them, Oscar Meyer.
Not even from a late campfire.
I do not eat them off the grill.
I won’t eat one at all until. . . .
I’m at the Taylor County High School girls’ softball field, and Hayley is playing shortstop. She’s hit a single, and made a few tremendous defensive catches, but they are behind 6 to 3. The sun is in my eyes, but it’s cool so I have on three layers (everything I could find in the back of the truck including an old baseball cap), and I’m remembering going to softball games with Ian in high school when his girlfriend was the pitcher. The booster ladies are cold in the concession stand, and no one is giving them any business except the little kid who keeps reaching up and running off with the ketchup bottle (until his dad wallops him one). And I see they aren’t boiled–someone has grilled them and is keeping them warm in electric skillet. I pull out a buck and pile on mustard, ketchup, relish and jalapenos.
Hayley’s up to bat. It’s the bottom of the 7th, and there are two runners on base. We’re down 6-3. She connects on the first pitch–pops it up–caught. Shoulders slump. Disappointment. But she’s only the first out–two more chances. Two more outs. She made some great plays. I love girls’ fast pitch.
I like this hot dog, Booster Mom.
Don’t tell me where you got it from.
I like it at a Hayley game.
The crowd, sport, cheers are all to blame.
I’m glad I ate–I cannot lie.
Too bad you don’t have rhubarb pie!