A simple ground ball of an obligation,
a slow roller of a promise
to show up on time at hallowed ground
to bear witness for the man who died at home,
and I muffed it!
The manager was forced to find another player
to go out onto the field for me,
someone who could stand up at the plate
and say kaddish for the dead.
I will never play for the angels,
upper or lower case,
and my soul will suffer on the injured reserve list.
But maybe the Ultimate Commissioner
might grant me another chance tomorrow
to suit up for my religion, take an at bat
to sing for all those who have played
many championship seasons in leagues
of both major and minor consequences.
They are all to be honored,
this side of Cooperstown.
THE POETRY OF THE GAME