Baseball Poem

SPRING TRAINING POEM (pitchers and catchers report)

Carl Stevens

some say that the robin heralds in spring,
warm weather's coming when she starts to sing.
tulips, I guess, are harbingers too,
when they open their petals as the mourning doves coo.
but there's a much surer sign that spring is near:
when the crack of the bat sings in my ear,
when the arms of warm leather embrace a hard ball
I know we're no longer in winter or fall.
the sun stays up longer, and the clouds do not mope;
baseball is back, so there's reason to hope.
some Midwestern slugger from triple A
hopes he can shine on a warm august day,
a young Venezuelan who's new on the scene
hopes to live out the American dream.
all they have is their talent, or brains and desire,
all burning with the same unquenchable fire:
to play like boys and get paid like men,
and do it again and again and again,
until crowds hold their breath, awaiting a pitch,
looking up with bright eyes from memory's ditch
as the sun shines like diamonds on diamonds so pure
that Shakespeare himself could write nothing so sure:
so sure as a homer that's lost in the night,
so sure as a fast ball that rides high and tight,
so sure as a runner thrown out at home plate,
so sure as a hitter who just stands and waits,
so sure as a bullpen that answers the call,
so sure as the ump who cries out "play ball!"
yes, I love baseball. it's my little fling,
my annual waltz with the daughter of spring.
I'll sit in the bleachers with my little boys,
we'll eat peanuts and popcorn and make lots of noise,
and get reacquainted with a very old friend: