ON READING SOMONE ELSE’S BASEBALL BOOK

Hey, that could have been me up at the plate,
staring at the pitcher, just knowing he was
afraid of my literary rep and my awesome average.
Instead, I am my seven-year-old myopic self,
exiled to right field where
the bigger boys hoped
I would never, ever, see a fly ball.
What good was it I skipped a grade?
What good was it I knew all the state capitals?
In the language of balls and strikes,
I was always the one pinch-hit for.
How willing I would have been
to manufacture a front-office baseball trade –
my smarts for the guarantee
I would hit a walk-off home run.
How readily I would have given up
a life of academia, if for one memorable game
I could have struck out the side in the top of the 9th.
I may never get a chance again
to step into the batter’s box of youth,
but I am sure, grown-up that I am,
I can knock your book out of the park.