"Sign for my Father" Poetry Multiple-Choice

Sign for My Father, Who Stressed the Bunt
by David Bottoms (1949-)

On the rough diamond,
the hand-cut field below the dog lot and barn,
we rehearsed the strict technique
of bunting. I watched from the infield,
the mound, the backstop (5)
as your left hand climbed the bat, your legs
and shoulders squared toward the pitcher.
You could drop it like a seed
down either base line. I admired your style,
but not enough to take my eyes off the bank (10)
that served as our center-field fence.
Years passed, three leagues of organized ball,
no fewer lives. I could homer
into the garden beyond the bank,
into the left-field lot of Carmichael Motors, (15)
and still you stressed the same technique,
the crouch and spring, the lead arm absorbing
just enough impact. That whole tiresome pitch
about basics never changing,
and I never learning what you were laying down. (20)
Like a hand brushed across the bill of a cap,
let this be the sign
I'm getting a grip on the sacrifice.

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