One morning we found the near
corner of the Long Meadow mowed
into six diamonds in the rough.
Cleated anticipation made a parade
of our walk over the green arcs,
rippling out from the sandy base
lines. We could smell neat’s-foot
oil and moments we could live
in that pounded pocket of time
where all that matters seems so
clear, everyone watching breathes
together, as if life were caught
in that two-out, full-count torque,
converging on us, fast and true.
THE POETRY OF THE GAME