When I was called up late last September,
the crowd heard my name over the PA,
before I pitched an inning of relief.
I gave up two hits, but no runs scored.
Soon after, they released me, saying
I wasn’t in “their long-range plans.”
I went back to Texas to watch my parents grow old.
I’d quit baseball if there was anything I love as much.
Got lucky as another club invited me to spring training.
So, here I am, now on the flip side of 30,
having spent my twenties climbing the baseball ladder
with a pitching arm that is not as strong as before.
I don’t know if I can do this anymore;
maybe I’ll just go back home.
But I was a major leaguer once,
if only for one inning,
if only for a sip, not a whole cup of coffee.
I guess no one will hear my name now.
THE POETRY OF THE GAME