Today's poem comes to mind as I wait out those ice-encrusted winter months and look forward to daily walks "in the neighborhood" ... past those ball diamonds waiting patiently for the crowds of kids ... or would-be kids ... to return to the base paths.
It also comes to mind with the onset of nippy nights and chilly mornings ... a reminder that the things of summer will soon be put aside while we search for the leaf rake ... and the dreaded snow shovel.
I like to store away sunnier memories ... something to tide me over in less inviting times, weather-wise. What better memory than a sun-drenched ball park?
There's one ball park in particular that holds a certain fascination. I guess it's because there's seldom anybody else around as we go strolling by.
I do pause there ... sometimes approach the backstop, and my fingers do grip the wire mesh like "some abandoned vine" ... while I think of days long, long ago, when I actually ran the bases a few times.
There's still that momentary urge to try it again. But I'm a little smarter now ... and a lot slower ... and I never do.
The poem:
Play BALL!
Standing behind
the sagging backstop
at the deserted field,
my fingers gripping
the wire mesh like
some abandoned vine,
I'm tempted to go
tearing around second,
sliding into third
in a cloud of dust;
instead, I linger
a few moments more,
enjoying the quiet,
just imagining that
roar of the crowd.
© 1998
(originally published in Capper's)
***
Today's word:
saggingAfterthoughts ... in response to your comments:
I can understand, Hechan, the bittersweet feelings you mention ... still, there are those memories ... and they must be beautiful ones (this coming from a person who loved ... still loves the water ... for its beauty, but never learned to swim). I understand, too, the idea that it's "only a piece of paper" ... but I, like you, find that hard to accept. I'm coming around to that viewpoint ... slowly ... maybe in another hundered years ... maybe ...
2 comments:
Your poem is a little sad when I read it at this stage of the game. I stand outside the fence and look in, but in my case it's a lake, pool, or ocean. I was a swimmer, and to the extent that I can...still am. My most success was with SCUBA and diving with a tank...but alas and alack, I can't even carry the gear by myself, so when I can it's only snorkling and can't find partners for that. Anyway, I can see it now...as your poem indicates. I can only be thankful I experienced it, and sometimes I forget that.
I'm still amazed at the thoughts and memories...sometimes hidden ones...brings out.
When I paint and am too hard on myself, I think about the first teacher I had at the Sr. Citizens "class" who said--don't worry...it's only a piece of paper. If it were only that, I'd not put myself into it. It's the same way with your poems...they are much more than just words and paper. I'm always amazed at them and never think of them as just those things...never enters my mind. Your poetry is an entity that has a life of its own. It means a lot to the reader...or we wouldn't be here...right?
Oh, the wonderful memories this evokes of the few years I played third base on a softball team. How I loved to throw that ball straight to first, hit it with my wooden bat, the feel of catching a line drive in the hollow of my mitt, then biking home or to the pool after the game! Years later, I went to Cooperstown - twice - and could have stayed there forever :)
My gramps played baseball in WWII with guys who woud have been in the majors had there not been a war. I still remember the trophy they all chipped and got for the guys who made it home - he displayed that trophy proudly but kept his medals hidden in a drawer.
I remember a coach once laughing, "Don't run so hard over home plate, you'll hit the fence and 'strain' yourself!" I empathize with Hechan but I have to say that though I no longer play (and haven't for years) I would pick up a dusty mitt and give it a go even now, given the chance. So what if I could hardly throw or catch any longer! There's just something magic about baseball...! I can still feel that ball in my hand, fingers just so, ready to throw...
Post a Comment