The first ball thrown
is the appearance of the new leaf.
The first ball caught
is the newly green expanse of the field.
The first game of the year
repudiates our seasonal ice age.
Time to shed winter coats,
and don the catcher’s chest protector.
Time to shed our mittens,
and break in our new first baseman’s glove.
Instead of shoveling out my driveway,
I can rake the dirt between first and second.
Instead of slogging through snowdrifts,
I can once more fly around the bases.
My spirit soaring, I am the kid
playing sandlot ball, imaging my first hit.
The winter of my discontent has been replaced by
the first ball thrown, the first ball caught,
and the first game of the year, which
will be repeated until fading twilight in October.
THE POETRY OF THE GAME