Full of dirt and chalk and sweat
Full of pride, and pain, regret
Should’ve chosen less than this
Should’ve understood the risk
The power, purpose, all for not
As knees and back and hands go rot
In command to lead this war
Fight to end the endless score
Fight to see through all the dust
Fight because the catcher must
Must call pitches, must frame strikes
Must take hits and slides with spikes
All while others play
The catcher bleeds his pain away.
THE POETRY OF THE GAME