When at bat we’re told to swing —
shoot for the farthest star in the sky.

Go ahead, try!

And we do. We slug until suddenly
a swing becomes a miss even when checked.

My young son watches the TV –

“Why didn’t the ref do anything,”
he asks, eyes wide.

Men with whistles make calls without conditions.
His arm a sword; his feet planted on the ground.

Bryce Harper takes it hard.

The miracle maker – a slugger who makes dreams
come true from a diamond stitched of threads and leather.

“Let’s give them something to talk about,” Harper
said last October, as he wiped his cleats in a fresh mound of soil.

And he did. Then again. Now again.

If Harper can make diamonds out of sand,
shouldn’t the ref be man enough to admit an error?