Back to Baseball

More Baseball Withdrawal

Feeling a little frozen out?

Here’s to warmer days . . .

Old-Timer

Could it really be him?

He steps slowly from the dugout,

Tips his cap.

His steps are measured,

His legs bowed.

His bearing, stooped.

The crowd roars.

He smiles.

His face is creased.

What’s that in his eye?

That same glimmer?

That same spark.?

He ambles to the foul line.

He removes his cap.

The roar, now deafening,

Echoes Into heaven itself

And the old man is gone

His steely eyes

Shake off the sign

And sneer at the batter

In one seamless gesture.

He delivers the pitch.

The ball burns through air

And strikes glove

With a resounding clap.

“Strike!”

And The old-timer is banished

As are my own years

I watch as a boy

From my lofty perch,

As he steps from the mound

The final out recorded;

The game won.

He shakes the catcher’s hand.

The team envelops him

And somehow,

I am there,

In the throng.

Forever young,

And believing in some secret, unspoken place

It could have been me.