there's no crying in baseball

the boys sported their clean, white pants;

canvases, for the grass to paint her self-portrait.

i sat, alone, in the outfield,

picking clovers with my left hand, and boogers with my right.

the lions’ den, packed with my teammates,

began to roar a mighty roar,

as the crack of the metal bat interrupted my existential thoughts,

and the white ball lined red evinced itself within my reach.

surrounding me, a swarm of people

all yelling, like angry wasps,

instructing me to throw the ball,

and suddenly, little league felt like something much larger.

launching the ball a grand two inches in front of me,

i said goodbye to the final inning of the game,

met with disappointment, my eyes became misty,

and it was then i remembered there’s no crying in baseball.