Prompt:  pp 139, 141  Create your own reverie in response to Bachelard’s reverie:  “When I read this line by Edmond Vandercammen: ‘My childhood goes back to that wheaten bread,’ an odor of warm bread invaded a house of my youth.”  Create a reverie to demonstrate how in your own life “a whole vanished universe is preserved by an odor.”

The Trophy in my room. First Place. The worst player on the best team.

I speak of the smell of my mitt. It is unique; I am left-handed, proudly so. I assume the smell–nothing else like it in my world–is the result of a very complex compound of leather and oil chemicals. To me, it smells like running around. To me, it smells like the Summer in the Grass. To me, it Smells Like Kid Spirit. That was the summer I literally never swung the bat once all season, though because of some well-timed errors, I bunted a home run during a practice game. We made the playoffs–only lost one game all year, to Jay Buhner’s Mariners. At least he gave me a high-five and a couple autographs. The first playoff game, I got pegged in the ankle. it kinda fucking hurt. But then I stole second. Then third. Then went home on a groundout. I was safe, but the umpire “wanted to be fair” or something. My coach argued. it took a long time. “Can we speed this up? My ankle’s falling asleep,” just to clear the mood. the dugout exploded in laughter. We won that game. We were eliminated by (go figure) the goddamn Yankees a few weeks later. Those kids were bigger than us and threw faster. Some might say they were older than our team, I say steroids are leaking into Little League. Jay Buhner expects way too much from his kids.