On this sun-drenched Florida field,
nobody has booted a grounder,
and nobody has thrown a ball away.
Nobody has taken a called third strike,
and nobody has missed a signal.
There’s excitement in the stands,
as retirees dream of past championships,
or, at least, a remembered run at the playoffs.
“We will win at least 90 games,” the manager promises.
“Our pitching is that good and we have
a veteran corps of players to support our youngsters.”
This is the best time,
when dreams float across the sky,
as lazily as pop flies,
and hope is as happy as
a safe call at third base.
This is the best time, a kid’s playground,
before the reality of the first fastball
comes sizzling across home plate.
THE POETRY OF THE GAME