ALLSTAR - A Baseball Poem

Somewhere out in left field

Intense sun like a southern Sunday

August Afternoon

Of naked running babies and fanning belles,

My future flashed before my wandering eyes

As a high fly ball, in slow motion,

Nestled with a plop within my upturned glove.

I am a hero to my son.

Not unlike me, he waits for the fast ball

Ripping between the short stop's

Straddled legs.

Man on his way to third in dusty haste,

A ninth inning score of six to six,

Escaped baseball like a dream fading away

Before the details are retained.

Mad, backward dash,

Leaping away from the blinding sun,

Extension of myself, the winning play

Assures a place in this year's World Series.

Cheering crowds, soaring ball

Settling in soft leather

As if a magnet placed in the glove

Iron-cored ball finds helpless to resist.

It is difficult to wait and be a hero.

Days of signing autographs

Are but a well-caught fly ball away.

In the lonely left field of ambition

Time exists for imagination.

My son collects bubble gum cards

Of those whose hopes were realized.

In fantasy, he sees me there.

So do I.

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