Give me a baseball poem.
If you can’t give me a baseball,
give me the damn poem.
Because a poem is almost as
good as a ball. Almost as good
as what boys can do when they
still dream, when they still have
all their energy and speed and
magic. Old men can sit on the
bench. And not even on the players
bench, but on the bench outside
the local park when the team
arrives, kids packed in an old Chevy,
coaches with wives and families
back at the house. It’s a joyous
time, an unbelievably joyous
time. Old men can write the