Pitchers and catchers report in two weeks,
hard to believe when a baseball
would now freeze in mid-air.
Players would not only slide home,
but also into first, second and third,
and the walk from the bull pen
would be accomplished by a sleigh ride in.
Managers would call time out
for a break of hot chocolate,
and the lonely right fielder
would have time to build
an individual ice house on the
snow-covered outfield grass.
But while freezing here up north,
I can comfort myself with the thought
that the cold will soon dissipate,
circulation will return to my hands,
that spring will soon emerge,
and the cry of “play ball” will enkindle
the summer season of my soul.
THE POETRY OF THE GAME