By Paul Kocak
Even with extra innings
The end comes
High inside
Or sweeping curve
It comes.
We all know that stance
Remember his grip
Curled and coiled.
We see the swing
And hear the crack.
The ball sails somewhere
Into the night
Into the silent
Empty stands.
It pierces our heart.
For he is going
Going gone.
Willie Mays, my youth.