The field of my dreams sparkles in the morning sun
as players swat home runs like flies in batting cages,
while others in the outfield camp under arching trajectories,
flicking at the descending orbs with practiced grace.
Pot-bellied coaches check their clipboards,
adjust their sunglasses, spit tobacco,
waiting for the game and the season to begin.
I am hopeful for a successful start,
well before injuries start to stack.
I am seven years old now with my glove and bat,
nervous with excitement at the start of my life,
well before errors and compromises spoil my stat sheet.
Now the green fields roll out before me,
alive with possible singles, doubles and triples.
Spring training, a perfume to be bottled
for when there is heightened pressure to play two
before my game is called on account of death.
THE POETRY OF THE GAME