Johnny Bench was born on December 7, 1947.
He played a mean game of baseball.
He loved to catch the ball.
He loved to throw the ball.
He loved the game of life as well as baseball.
He loved to lay his glove on someone sliding into home as the ref called them out
He loved every player he played with. In or off the field.
A professional baseball player.
Like me. This catcher of the game called adoption.
I love every player in it.
So much that I’m gonna let you in on a few of our secrets.
It’s time everyone got it.
Home plate is your Mama.
And ain’t no body sliding into her. No. They out.
You wanna run into her? Well okay? Try me bro?
Get stomped to the floor. Out!
With a wave of my gloves hand holding a ball I will hear you called out trying to come home like that.
When does the catcher not get to tag some out?
Homerun baby. home run.
Who gets a home run?
A professional player of the game of love.
Love of Mom.
For the love of mom
For the love of the game.
Sound sick? You’re sick.
Why the hell else do men love that game? Home plate. Is mom. Who’s sliding in the dm? That’s should be hitting a home run?
Public proclamations of adorations will count as a home run. Why not? It is a public proclamation of my truth. Written from a garage in a far away town. To my own Mama. So I am showing you the way if you’d dare to even try. I thought maybe? Some people might want to accept the truth like i did long ago. Ain’t no stopping loving my Mama.
Adoption made that point clearer. Magnified it. stamped on it. Bruised it. Beat it up. Pounded it home in my whole being. Home plate. Is Mom. And my adopted Daddy taught me Baseball. That’s what I got out of the game. Go figure what orphans think? Well I’m figuring what I thought was pretty damn genius.
And I’ve lived my life like that. Folks done bring there trashy ideas across my life and think I’m not gonna tell them it stinks and give them a word or two to change their damned minds about my Mamas. There comes a time when enough is enough if the nonsense of people interpretation of your game that you simply lay it all out in the table. You wanna know or you don’t wanna know? Your gonna know.
And it looks like I am telling my Mama some god awful truth she don’t already know. This here is her confirmations. Of everything. She prayed about. My whole life all appearing globbed up. But she’s knows what she’s searching for is in my words. She feels the hit of recognition from my words telling it my way. Hitting buttons Mama did not know she had. Bing bing bing bing bing.
Nailing it to the wall without a prayer. Cuz I stole base, by hitting it home. Round and round the field I go. Victory laps like games of old. While the world watches me twist and turn paying tribute to home. Mama. Cuz Mamas always been watching my game from afar. She was always there in her prayers. Lord be with Stephanie Anne today. I pray she does well on any test and that people will be kind to her. Give her my love lord. Thank you. Something like that.
My Mama. Is a secret prayer warrior of mine. And anyone else that’s close to her. Including. Mama Jean. And all my husbands. Probably why they didn’t make the cut to my team I imagine. Her prayers pack a wallop folks. Much like her Mamas prayers. That woman prayed for me my whole life. And I’d never laid eyes on her until I was thirty? People will remember I came from a family of prayers.
I’ve played a mean game of life for my Mamas love. And I would like it toot sweet. I’ve played and I’ve won at loving two woman while maintaining within the rules of the game of adoption. No where does it state that I may not use my love for my own Mama to win at loving a stranger. I do it everyday. So. Naturally this does pull us together. Naturally creates a pulling together. I did not like this. But I have honored my own Mamas request to a tea. And in doing so have fulfilled my requirement to her requirement. Which means. The commitment is fulfilled on my end. Her end is to accept her friend whole heartedly as family now. She’s earned it through loving me back with all she was given and more. No ones perfect.
The bottom line is this. Mama jean could not steal home plate from me if she tried. I’m Johnny Bench on that one thing. And blame it on the dna.