He was a twelve year old boy
With a lefthander’s glove, laces worn and leather creased,
Sweat on his brow and dirt on his face,
With scraped elbows and skinned knees.
He bounced an old Spalding basketball on the back step,
The faded brand name worn to a faint scrawl.
And he’d shout over his shoulder as he slammed out the gate,
“Mom, I’ll be back. I’m goin’ to play ball.”
Over a half a century later, he’d be seated
In the bleachers of the high school gym,
That little boy of summer, now a grown man,
With an adolescent heart of joy still beating within.
And any given day, with keys in his hand and a cap on his head,
He’d wave and say “Goin’ to play ball.”
And I’d hear him from the front of the stands
Loudly offer his opinion to the ump on a close call.
He treads now on a hallowed field of dreams,
An All-American southpaw...
With a halo haphazardly tucked into his back pocket,
And I know he’s “goin’ to play ball…”
