Chilled to the bone you sit
bundled against the April wind,
as I am transported as always
within the chalk lines and expanse of green
in the diamond and its outfield.

You try, but you will never grasp
the thrill I have known since childhood:
the sounds, the rhythms, the anticipation
of each pitch, each swing of the bat,
the ballet of fielders.

You endure nine innings,
do your best to understand this game,
cheer when the home team wins
and let me bask in familiar memories.