“Hope is a thing with feathers,”
Emily Dickinson famously said.
I try to remember that
as I scan the box scores
of spring training games,
wondering if each player
I don’t recognize will
blossom into an all-star player.
Hope is a batter stepping up to the plate,
a pitcher beginning his wind-up,
a manager filling out his line-up card.
Hope is the next batter,
the next game, the next series.
It is the tenuous string to the heart
that keeps one alive.
It is the smile of a young kid
pounding his glove, praying
that the next ground ball
will be hit to him so he can make the play.
Hope is as large as a grapefruit
which maybe will not become pulverized
as the season slips into summer.
THE POETRY OF THE GAME