ALLSTAR - A Baseball Poem
Somewhere out in left field
Intense sun like a southern Sunday
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
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.