Once It Was Me

I remember that boy standing there in the outfield grass, Waiting and watching so no ball would pass. He was in right field, or was it center or left? I only know he played each with its own kind of depth. The emblazoned cap snug against his skull, shading his face from the sun. The game was all that mattered, even if he was having fun. The colorful jersey which he proudly wore, with a number on his back, Showed that he was part of the team, so everyone could keep track. He waited patiently for a ball to come, so he could make a play. Sometimes he waited the entire game, sometimes for a whole day. But he stood his ground like the ballplayer he wanted to be, Taking his stance, just like the pros he would see. He would rub his mitt, then gently hold it open over his knee, When the ball came to him, he was sure to be ready. Was he wearing sneakers, or proudly putting on his cleats, He wore bluejeans at first, shedding them for a baggy uniform without pleats. It was those early years in the outfield where he was taught, That errors are made, and perfection was sought. He realized that errors would be part of the game, Not only in the outfield, but in life all the same. I remember that boy at each little league game I see, For in truth I clearly recall that boy...once it was me. For Oil Painting #4 contest by: Eve Roper written: 12/12/15