Past Time

I am ten and crossing home. Two players missed it, as it rolls on and on. An error if you're scoring the play, but I call it a home run on my first day. I am ten, and I have found my first love in a tattered ball, and a hand-me-down glove. I am twenty, and I am throwing hard. Beading sweat, please stay in the yard! Each pitch thrown with a hope and a prayer. Scholarship athletes can't be only fair. Medical school looms larger than the Show. A privilege for few, but I don't want to go. I am thirty and I cannot put it down. Sundays the old men come around. Love of the game a common bond. The bat is no longer a magic wand. Reminiscing about those bygone days. I can no longer beat out those close plays. I am forty, and I watch with delight. My own boys throwing with all their might. A lump in my throat, a moist eye. I contentedly look on and sigh. I've passed down the love to the next generation, and I wouldn't trade that for a standing ovation.