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?