The Playing Field

Home and war intertwine in life.

There were hands moving up a baseball bat to choose which boys were part of the team. The boys waited anxiously watching as letters came pouring in to addresses where Americans lived in a war zone called family. You always worried whether you be picked last. You could hear the safeties clicking off M14 rifles to lock and load another round in the chamber. The players chosen boys went off to the playing field. Some American flags would be draped over boxes; the round in the chamber never fired. Back home in the world citizens plundered how government could play god with boys skin and souls. Everywhere mosquitos reigned the blood sucking and itching became part of the menu. If you hit it to right field you were considered out because we never fielded enough player. If you lived on water buffalo consider yourself lucky you were alive and eating. The ballyhoo in the memory cells lasted for decades. Your hand moved up to the top of the bat, it was your turn