Slapshot


Green fields of Ohio
manicured, rolling, perfect.
Stone villas, gates, fences
mansions in his eyes.
It was the time of Reagan and Gorbachev 
of Jack Nicklaus and Bohuslav Stejskal, Bob, my father.
So fresh and new was he 
in this land
green like the course that surrounded them.
Eyes blue and shining
through the beard laced with dust.
How many words did he know back then?
Brick? Stone? Mortar?
“Welcome to America!”
The golfer teed off 
flashing his perfect, straight, American teeth.
My father may have been startled
had he known the pro.
He stretched out a hard, calloused hand
He loved to play.  Loved to laugh.
And ignorance is bliss.
He took the gleaming stick
squared off 
right leg toward the target
wound up over his left shoulder 
and SMACKED
the best slap shot
any puck could’ve asked for!
Only this was golf
this was America
a land (as it turned out)
not too pristine
for a sense of humor.
by Barbora Bridle
06/2011