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patented genuine leather gloves 
captivating our boyhood heroes
those same gloves flailing about
towards fly's we were supposed to catch

a glowing white ball with red thread
that begged to be rocketed into orbit
we dreamed of such heroics
pleaded to the God's for the power
most times we flailed there too

it was a tiny aspirin
that evaded mammoth sticks
eagle-eyed trembling lads tried and tried
at least three consecutive times
before retreating with lowered heads
and yet we swore we'd return
with vengeance upon our hearts

there were parents, encouraging
some hopelessly, others with zest
each and every ball pitched
held a lifetime of recollection to come
hopes that immortality would strike
inhale, swing....exhale, next

one by one we took our turn
learning life, the struggles, the joys
suckling each moment with precious breath
tomorrow didn't matter, this was the day
contact, wood upon a now scuffed ball
foulball the ump screamed!
a delightful sound
for it meant success
no matter how miniscule
clapping, smiles broad as the horizon
shoulder slaps, that a boy!

proud parents boasted
picnics were planned
even the diamond itself sparkled
it lived for moments such as these
ah the stories held within those fences

Part 2

thirty five years have gone by
our "field of dreams" now a grave site
ironic that coach Lou resides at homeplate
his stone reads "We lent him boys,
He returned young men"
a great tribute to his dedication
and love for the game

the grave yard littered with former players
however the mound lies bare
no hill, nor stone
only my own precious memories
one day, I shall play again.............

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