Practice Practice Practice
Their friendship grew
and one balmy Saturday afternoon, she asked:
“Hey Ant teach me!”
“Annnge…ya ahready
knows how ta play,” he responded.”
“Yea, but I don’t
know how to hit dem killahs like youse does.”
“So practice, ya na
wat they sez.”
“Say about what?”
“Ya gotta practice ta
be poifect, so practice.”
“Yea but I dunno wat
I gotsta practice, divo.”
“Look it’s ina eye,
da ball goes wa ya looks, ya got dat?”
“Okay!”
“So look ata base ada
wall,” He pointed, and continued: “Look wa da wall ana ground meet, and hit it
da.”
She tried a few
times, some came close, others were way off, and one or two were spot on.
“See ya gots it, jest
keep practicing that, ventually it will come natural ta ya.”
“Okey dokey,” She
smiled.
At the sound of Mr.
Softee’s music, they laughed, and raced to the truck. It got to where he always
bought her a treat. In his heart he was being kind, a big brother, but it was
all the world to her. Occasionally they would walk to the corner deli and he
would treat her to a soda. It was all
innocent, but one day that summer she looked him in the eye and from her heart
murmured,
“I’m meant for ya!”
It scared the crap out
of him,” the hairs on his arm stood at attention, and it took him more than a moment to get a hold of himself, before he
responded,
“Look Angie you a
beautiful girl, but I dun wanna go ta jail. So puhlease foigedaboudit!”
“Oh I can wait, I got
time dude, one day…you’ll see!”
“Oh okay, one day,
uh…he hee hee!”
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