The Ole' Ballfield

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.............