I checked each box score
as a boy, baseball games
the day and night before.

Now, in my 79th year,
0n reading the local tabloid,
I scan obituaries for a familiar

name, perhaps an old colleague
who collapsed while rounding first
in the Senior Citizens League,

or a geezer who went down
while he was limping out
a dribbler past the mound.

Maybe Slivers passed away,
the guy who rode our bench,
praying for a chance to play,

or perhaps the shortstop, Matt,
took one for the team,
a fast ball in his last at bat.