The Last Time I Saw Aron Anderson

He played ball like a king—toking hard on cheap blunts
in the batting cage.  No one could say shit to him
because he had it grooved to where his swing stayed smooth
even after contact.  He said, “My parents left the same day
they named me Aron—with just one a in it—at the town hospital.
At least they gave me that.  Someday I’m gonna’ be All-State.
I’ll make my name famous.”  People knew about him in five counties
at least—so much so that word spread.  Big scouts showed up
to watch our team play and get whipped by whoever bussed in from the city
to teach us a lesson—that we were just poor, po-dunk kids, ultimately:
practice for the bourgeoisie elite.  But in the district championship,
we played a too-wealthy Wimberley team we defeated barely.
And it was sweet, let me tell you, to stand on that field after it
with Aron saying, “Shit.  We did it.  We did it.”
“Fuckin’ ‘aye, man.  We did”—because he started slinging meth,
and even though he got away and the cops couldn’t keep him
from coming back here, we’ve not spoken since then.


[BIO]: J. Scott is a Writers in the Public Schools Fellow at NYU, where he teaches poetry to undergraduates and second graders through the Teachers & Writers Collaborative.



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