July exists as perspiration in calendar form. I resemble desert camo: legal yellow spotted damp with infield dust freckles. Umbrellas ripple open like gutted thunder, herald the sun’s descent. Father whizzes practice pitches to other kids. A helmet hangs from my stapled corner.

Night is one broken promise after another: camera flashes from behind home plate, car headlights over the right field fence, intervals of waning moon bulb bright. The heat lightning is distant, in retreat, too cloud muted to alchemize with an aluminum bat.

I listen for the sudden crack, the angry hiss as a line drive rips the air. Boys my age are awkward, more chest than glove. At lunch the next day, they lift their shirts, boast in purple bruise. When I do the same, I hear a large gasp at the sight of my entrance wound.