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