Notes About The Poem
You don't have to be the best, or even competent, at something to find your own version of joy and leave a memorable impact on the people around you.
The Ballad of Charlie O’May
Young Charlie O’May was a marvel to see,
The pride of the Wombats, Division Three.
With a glove made of leather and dreams of the pros,
He could miss any object that came near his nose.
He stood in the grass like a figure of grace,
Until a fly ball nearly smashed in his face.
The orb would descend from the afternoon blue,
And Charlie, focused, would follow it through.
He’d gallop and holler, "I’ve got it! It’s mine!"
Then trip on his shoelace and pop his own spine.
The ball wouldn’t land in the pocket of hide,
But bounced off his shoulder and out to the side.
"It’s a glitch in the physics!" the youngster asserted,
While the fans in the bleachers looked highly diverted.
He’d dive for a grounder with spirit and grit,
And come up with nothing but gravel and spit.
The coach, in the dugout, would chew on his hat,
And pray that the boy could at least wield a bat.
But Charlie’s swing was a sight of its own,
A whirlwind of wood, no contact ever known.
He’d windmill and wallop with frantic intent,
Ignoring the path where the fastballs were sent.
The pitcher giggled and lobbed a slow curve,
Which Charlie missed with shattering nerve.
He struck out on three pitches—none in the zone—
Then tripped on the plate and let out a groan.
He adjusted his helmet (which sat on his ear)
And ignored the collective and thunderous jeer.
"The wood is defective," he’d say with a shrug,
As he accidentally stepped on a great big bug.
He wanted the look of the big-league elites,
With tobacco-stained smiles and mud on their cleats.
He tucked a large plug in the side of his cheek,
But his stomach grew gurgly and suddenly weak.
He gagged and he choked on the poisonous bit,
As he tried (and failed miserably) to get rid of the spit.
The juice leaked in rivers down on his white shirt,
Mixing with sweat and the infield's red dirt.
He sputtered and coughed till his face turned plum,
Deciding he’d stick to a piece of bubblegum.
He tossed the foul wad in the trash with a fit,
And right then and there, Charlie decided to quit.
But the way that he ran was the strangest of all,
Like a panicked gazelle or a hog, feral.
His knees hit his chin as his elbows would flail,
Like a ship in a storm that lost every sail.
He never ran straight, but in zig-zags and loops,
While jumping over invisible hula-hoops.
If he happened to walk—which occurred by mistake—
He’d sprint toward first for the audience's sake.
He’d collide with the baseman and flatten his chest,
Leaving the poor man a bit over stressed.
He once ran to second but veered to the right,
And tackled the umpire with all of his might.
"Safe!" croaked the official from under the pile,
While Charlie flashed him a confident smile.
He barreled through shortstops and pitchers, you know,
Like a runaway train with no whistle to blow.
No player was safe when the O’May was in motion,
He caused a continuous, sprawling commotion.
The scouts from the big leagues all stayed far away,
Leaving Charlie O’May in the bushes to play.
But even as the clock hits 4:47 today,
He’s swinging at shadows and missing his way.
He lacks any talent, but Charlie’s quite proud,
Of being the guy who most baffles the crowd.
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