Bottle Capped Sunday

After dad's Sunday softball games, us kids would run the bases. Then we'd skip over to the River Inn Tavern. Players would gather in small sweaty clumps. Guzzling life Playing pool Devouring cold cuts Rehashing the scent of the game The dirt on their uniforms, the state of a blue collared art. I collected bottle caps in those days. Had a secret agreement with "Chops." The coach and tavern owner. Every time the cash register rang. The richer him and I became. Big George was the first basemen. Power hitter and power drinker. He was by far. the biggest contributor to my collection. My favorite bottle cap was a Genesse Cream Ale. It was a pretty pale green. Reminded me of a quiet mountain lake. or the eyes of the little blonde a few houses down. Many bottle caps later we would leave the River Inn Tavern. Dads heart brimming with dirt and diamond. My pockets jingling with tiny mountain lakes. Both of us stinking of beer and bargain cigarettes. That was a million Sundays ago, Chops, Big George and my bottle cap collection are gone. My father is on deck. Don't know what became of the little blonde. Who lived a few houses down from my heart.