Opening Day,
three syllables that splash
across my face each year like
the wave of a giant flag, as baseball
season begins again, and again and again.

It should be a national holiday,
when schools close, business give discounts,
children wave small flags and babies wear
cute onesies with team mascots
emblazoned across the fronts.

The day reminds me of the year
in summer when my parents bought
each of us our own transitor radio, early 
in its creation, teal green rectangle with
gold knobs to fit in the hand, a sense of freedom.

I suspect it was a covert operation of my
father’s as he planted the elements of sports
into the psyche of his five daughters, hoping
they would pursue an interest, with its nine volt
battery, small antenna and plastic case.

On summer days when we were expected to stay
outside, we had our transitors and sat under the
huge beech tree on the front lawn, listening to
day games or searching for music that would lure
us into adolescence when we lost track of those transitors.

Yet, the sound of the bat,
smacking a home run into the stands, our
hometeam winning, the roar of the crowd and
even the sometimes annoyance of announcers all
comes back each year on opening day.