Hey, that could have been me up at the plate,
staring at the pitcher, just knowing he was
afraid of my literary rep and my awesome average.
Instead, I am my seven-year-old myopic self,
exiled to right field where
the bigger boys hoped
I would never, ever, see a fly ball.
What good was it I skipped a grade?
What good was it I knew all the state capitals?
In the language of balls and strikes,
I was always the one pinch-hit for.
How willing I would have been
to manufacture a front-office baseball trade –
my smarts for the guarantee
I would hit a walk-off home run.
How readily I would have given up
a life of academia, if for one memorable game
I could have struck out the side in the top of the 9th.
I may never get a chance again
to step into the batter’s box of youth,
but I am sure, grown-up that I am,
I can knock your book out of the park.
THE POETRY OF THE GAME