If the ballpark stadium were alive
after the last pitch, the last batter,
what would he do?
Would he pull up the tarps
positioned on the sidelines
over himself to keep warm?
Would he plant seeds
in the outfield grass
to bloom once again
when the weather warms?
Most probably, he would sit lonely,
go over the season’s highlights,
and think what could have been.
He wept when the team
failed to make the playoffs again,
when the ace of the staff
tore a muscle in his arm,
when attendance figures
dropped for the third straight year.
But the stadium dried his tears,
thought that what he needed
was a fresh coat of paint,
and some new flags to fly over the bleachers.
He would endure the winter snows,
the cold, the absolute silence,
save for the screeching of birds,
and think about the glories of opening day
when the world would be new,
and he could entertain dreams of victory,
without embarrassment, with confidence.
THE POETRY OF THE GAME