You hit this wild brave poem
high and from your off hand.
All of a sudden, I’m out of my league.
I’m the little kid playing right field
because the big kids were short one.
I’m rooted to the spot, watching
the magnificent arc of it. Paralyzed
by the power and simple beauty of it.
On a good day I could make the play,
but today I can’t move. Too awestruck.
It thuds to earth and rolls slowly
to some obscure corner. I give chase,
one awkward crow hop at a time,
thinking hard about the fragile grace
of every moment we get to play.
THE POETRY OF THE GAME