Take Me Out

What is life, if it is not one

Filled with excitement, joy and fun.

The screams and laughter filling the air,

The merriment spreading everywhere.

Oh how the sounds would seize the place:

A cacophony of metal scraping on lace

Was somehow mellifluous to the rightful ear

Who knew that this sport was a privilege to hear.

The noxious scent of pine tar, rubber and dirt.

The feeling of mud in your cleats and your shirt.

The rocks in your socks when you slid at a base.

The bruises and bumps on your arms and your face.

The jeering of opponents, the throwing of hats.

The unbearable pressure when you take your at-bat.

While these faults are varied, they are indeed all the same:

Minor aspects to an otherwise perfect game.

I remember the pants of kids beginning to race,

Running from first to second base,

Sprinting and sliding and scraping away,

Their bliss and excitement leading the way.

The feeling of euphoria when, during your swing,

Metal hit leather with a satisfying ping.

The ball soaring high, along with your pride

As it shot higher and higher up into the skies.

When first the ball was hit from tee,

Little children ran excitedly.

The game was only meant for fun

By one for all and all for one.

Then came kid pitch, and tees were bested.

Hitting skill was truly tested.

Four years of playing at this level predated

Our move to the big diamond when we graduated.

We emerged from cocoons like butterflies.

The next few years seemed to flutter by

And as boys became men, joy for our pastime never waned,

And that is how love for my game is explained.