Signed books and photos,
Baseballs and player cards,
Each carefully placed
In clear cubes, frames, and sleeves,
Like precious artifacts encased
In temperature-controlled cases,
Deep inside history’s museums,
Are what remains of our heroes,
Since passed away or retired,
Shrines to their times, and ours, too,
When life was simple and carefree,
More in front of us than behind.
They hold special memories
Of home runs heard here,
There, and around the world,
Of days at sports camps,
Hearing shocking news on the radio,
Of competitiveness and focus,
In dark eyes peering over a glove’s edge,
Of those dedicated to excellence,
As people as well as players.
Reverently, we take these momentos
Gently in our hands, washed clean
In lieu of the soft, white gloves of a curator,
And we tell their stories to friends and family,
We pass this part of the game,
To kids, grandchildren, and if we’re lucky,
Great grandchildren, eager to listen,
To understand a time they’ll never see.
THE POETRY OF THE GAME