I used to think baseball was too slow for me
as I dashed through my 30s, 40s, and 50s,
tending to life’s changes of speed,
but now that I’m in my 60s, baseball’s pace
seems to more closely match my own rhythm.
I take a keener interest in
a southpaw’s looping, inviting curve,
or the emergence of this year’s batting champ.
This year I looked at the standings in both leagues,
and noticed how many games my beloved Mets were behind.
I attended games now and then and caught my breath
when the green fields opened up before me.
I checked the out-of-town scoreboard
and felt sorry for the teams sixteen games out.
Baseball has brought me back home,
back to the playing field of my childhood,
to the time when my Ebbets Field heroes
strode like giants along the base paths,
and when I hoped against hope my father
would stop working and play catch with me.
THE POETRY OF THE GAME