Clothespins

I once hit clothespins for the Chicago Cubs. I'd go out after supper when the wash was in and collect clothespins from under four stories of clothesline. A swing-and-a-miss was a strike-out; the garage roof, Willie Mays, pounding his mitt under a pop fly. Bushes, a double, off the fence, triple, and over, home run. The bleachers roared. I was all they ever needed for the flag. New records every game— once, 10 homers in a row! But sometimes I'd tag them so hard they'd explode, legs flying apart in midair, pieces spinning crazily in all directions. Foul Ball! What else could I call it? The bat was real.