The junior squad
sit along the bottom of the bank
watching in shell shock silence.
Sammy, their best troop
carried off
the diamond field
the diamond field
on a litter made from
mummies and daddies’ arms.
The captain
scratches her flat nose
touches the tongue of her cap
like she’s seen her older brother do.
She huffs deeply-slow,
surrenders again
to Saturday morning conscript.
The superstar sibling –
‘Smash-It Siaki’ –
gives her an upward nod
and flutters his fingers along his arm
from the sideline
Her eyebrows furrow at
the hand signal orders.
She picks up her wooden weapon,
marches to enemy lines.
Her eyes scan the territory:
bases loaded
infield infantry
crouched and armed
with hollowed gloves,
outfield cavalry
ready to charge at big hits.
She knows the drill:
swings the bat side to side
bounces from her knees
loosens her shoulders
bends her wrists.
Her comrades chant her name
and their team colours.
Whoosh…
whoosh…
whoosh!
Her helmet bounces off the turf.
Another casualty.
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