Sometimes, it’s not about metaphors at all.
Sometimes, it’s just about baseball,
the smell of the field, the swing of the bat,
the sandlot games I played
when I was 12 and guarded the first base line.
We were the Generals then, and I was #14,
in honor of my hero, Gil Hodges.
We didn’t have uniforms, just tee-shirts,
and Bobby Tzchechik was our shortstop and captain.
No hovering parents, no Little League rules,
just boys tossing the ball around,
before the game became a business,
as the sun went down on our childhood.
I looked for my old glove the other day,
but it got traded for credit cards and mortgage payments,
thereby becoming a metaphor once again.
THE POETRY OF THE GAME