Mistaking your dad for somebody else.

This could be a bad thing for you

but it's a good thing for me. See,

I woke up every morning as a kid

with a picture of Ryne Sandberg over my bed.

The bleachers are blurry.

Fan's faces like oil spots and sauce stains.

Bur Ryne Sandberg's face is clear.

He's rubbings his hands across the bill

of his helmet to get pine tar on

his batting gloves.

He holds his bat like an axe,

chops balls in half

and their pieces fall into right field

at George Hendrick's feet.

His face looks like somebody's dad's face.

Cheeks covered in lines and dirt

with a two-day-old beard.

Not the type of dad's face

that would kiss your forhead,

but the type of dad

who spits on his hands before he digs in the yard

and throws handfuls of seeds onto

the lawn's dead patches.