Timothy J. McBride
He chased me with his worn black leather belt like a coon hound awakened from a sleep by the tinkling crash of a baseball home running through the window.
With tears for a lost ball and lost allowance, I shinnied the sanctity of the old cottonwood till he smiled, out his belt back through the loops of worn jeans and told me about being caught in the neighbor’s apple tree; left alone by the other kids who had apples stuffed in pockets and shirts.
We walked to the house to clean my shattered triumph from the floor and talked of Ty Cobb, Babe Ruth, and my Dad over cookies and milk.
©Copyright January 2010 by Timothy J. McBride