Playing nine in my mind’s eye
I recall the slightest things …
Fresh cut grass, our dirt-stained pants
A mile high pop up against a deep endless blue

One can’t forget getting called
To start for the varsity …
Players got a head taller, pitchers a good bit faster
Me nervous to just once connect bat to horse hide

Spring game doesn’t even count
Positions are not yet set …
Your number’s not a sure thing
Jittery bench chatter builds up a wave of nerves

310 to straightaway left
Center was 400 plus …
But our chain links peeled off in a line
Straight toward the school’s new gym
Leaving right field with nothing but grass for a mile

Big flies might clear our fence
Perhaps once or twice each game …
But hard line drives sent to right
Could take a roll all the way out to the third grade

So line up speed in center
And left will need a cannon …
But send nerves of steel to right
Or you’ll be serving up ducks on a pond all night.