Read Online Never Blame the Umpire by Gene Fehler - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Gene Fehler
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can’t stop the sobs. I fall onto my bed and bury my face in my pillow. Why can’t I do it? Why can’t I find the right words? I’m probably just making things worse by trying to convince God to help Mama. He hears words all the time from people who really know how to pray, who aren’t selfish.
Please God. Please don’t make Mama sufferbecause of my foolish words. She needs your help. She deserves your help.
Suddenly I’m biting my lower lip so hard it hurts. If I make it bleed maybe that will get God’s attention. Maybe he’ll realize I really care.
But I start to sob again. Because I realize that God has probably already stopped listening.
Seventeen
valley lakes program
The auditorium is packed for our program. It’s mostly the families of the more than sixty of us who decided to spend three weeks of our summer vacation in the classroom again. The reason for the program is to show the parents what their talented kids have created during the three weeks. “Talented” isn’t my word; it’s what the director of Valley Lakes says when he talks to the audience at the start of the program.
I wish it were true. I don’t feel especially talented. The worst thing is that in a few minutes I’ll have to stand up in front of an auditorium full of people and read some of my poems. My stomach is turning somersaults just thinking about it.
Most of us have to perform on stage. The visual arts kids are the only ones who don’t. Their art work is in display in the lobby for everybody to look at when they come and go out after the program is over. All the artists have to do is stand beside their work and talk about it if anybody has questions. And of course get their picture taken alongside their work by somebody in their family.
I’ve been backstage with the rest of my class while the vocal and dance classes went on. It’s given me time to get even more nervous.
My class all walks out on stage. We all have to be on stage together while each of us goes up to the microphone to read our poems.
My hands are shaking when I get to the microphone, but I take a deep breath and feel a little better. I manage to get through my first poem okay. It’s a tennis poem, “World Class Lob.”
My opponent’s lob shot
Played with the sun.
It finally turned and sped away,
Back toward where I waited
To punish the ball
For taking so long to arrive.
The sun saw the danger,
rumbled from the sky,
Stuck its blinding rays in my eyes,
Letting the ball land
Softly, happy – safe
From my waiting overhead smash.
I wrote that poem the first week. Most of what I wrote the last week rhymed. We’d spent two whole days of class this week writing nothing but silly poems, kind of like what Shel Silverstein writes. That was the assignment. Mr. Gallagher said, “Some people think that silly poems are harder to write than serious ones, so here’s my challenge: I want you to spend the next two days writing only silly poems. If you can try ten different poem ideas and two of them are good, you’re ahead of the game.”
I was glad he gave us that assignment. If I wrote what I was really feeling, I’d end up with poems too depressing to read, or else poems so personal I wouldn’t dare read them.
None of my silly poems are anywhere near as good as Silverstein’s, but I picked out three of them to read anyway, mostly because Mr. Gallagher said he liked them. He said I have a good ear for rhythm. I don’t know if that’s true, but it made me feel good when he said it.
When I read, I know I read faster than I should. It’s just that I’m nervous and want to finish as soon as possible.
Baking Watermelon
I baked a watermelon cake
With green rind and black seeds.
I used some sand for icing;
For candles I used weeds.
It tasted far too gritty,
And, sad to say, too dry.
I guess next time I’ll try to bake
A watermelon pie.
Friday Is My Day
Friday is my day to do what I like,
And what I like best is to ride on my
Please God. Please don’t make Mama sufferbecause of my foolish words. She needs your help. She deserves your help.
Suddenly I’m biting my lower lip so hard it hurts. If I make it bleed maybe that will get God’s attention. Maybe he’ll realize I really care.
But I start to sob again. Because I realize that God has probably already stopped listening.
Seventeen
valley lakes program
The auditorium is packed for our program. It’s mostly the families of the more than sixty of us who decided to spend three weeks of our summer vacation in the classroom again. The reason for the program is to show the parents what their talented kids have created during the three weeks. “Talented” isn’t my word; it’s what the director of Valley Lakes says when he talks to the audience at the start of the program.
I wish it were true. I don’t feel especially talented. The worst thing is that in a few minutes I’ll have to stand up in front of an auditorium full of people and read some of my poems. My stomach is turning somersaults just thinking about it.
Most of us have to perform on stage. The visual arts kids are the only ones who don’t. Their art work is in display in the lobby for everybody to look at when they come and go out after the program is over. All the artists have to do is stand beside their work and talk about it if anybody has questions. And of course get their picture taken alongside their work by somebody in their family.
I’ve been backstage with the rest of my class while the vocal and dance classes went on. It’s given me time to get even more nervous.
My class all walks out on stage. We all have to be on stage together while each of us goes up to the microphone to read our poems.
My hands are shaking when I get to the microphone, but I take a deep breath and feel a little better. I manage to get through my first poem okay. It’s a tennis poem, “World Class Lob.”
My opponent’s lob shot
Played with the sun.
It finally turned and sped away,
Back toward where I waited
To punish the ball
For taking so long to arrive.
The sun saw the danger,
rumbled from the sky,
Stuck its blinding rays in my eyes,
Letting the ball land
Softly, happy – safe
From my waiting overhead smash.
I wrote that poem the first week. Most of what I wrote the last week rhymed. We’d spent two whole days of class this week writing nothing but silly poems, kind of like what Shel Silverstein writes. That was the assignment. Mr. Gallagher said, “Some people think that silly poems are harder to write than serious ones, so here’s my challenge: I want you to spend the next two days writing only silly poems. If you can try ten different poem ideas and two of them are good, you’re ahead of the game.”
I was glad he gave us that assignment. If I wrote what I was really feeling, I’d end up with poems too depressing to read, or else poems so personal I wouldn’t dare read them.
None of my silly poems are anywhere near as good as Silverstein’s, but I picked out three of them to read anyway, mostly because Mr. Gallagher said he liked them. He said I have a good ear for rhythm. I don’t know if that’s true, but it made me feel good when he said it.
When I read, I know I read faster than I should. It’s just that I’m nervous and want to finish as soon as possible.
Baking Watermelon
I baked a watermelon cake
With green rind and black seeds.
I used some sand for icing;
For candles I used weeds.
It tasted far too gritty,
And, sad to say, too dry.
I guess next time I’ll try to bake
A watermelon pie.
Friday Is My Day
Friday is my day to do what I like,
And what I like best is to ride on my
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