by Van
When I was young, in the ’60s,
baseball was a snore in the winter.
I used to take my grass-stained bat
to bed with me,
and smell summer ’til I slumbered.
Other times I’d take my glove
to bed when the smell of oiled horse hide
lead to dreams of heroic runs for a fly ball.
60 years later,
the internet has replaced
my baseball gear late into the night.
Now, there’s free agency to speculate into exhaustion.
Who will sign where?
Why?
For how much?
Which teams are selling?
Who’s buying who?
What will your team look like next year?
Who’s going to greener grass?
Who’s loyal to their fan base?
Now, I’m old enough for my 2nd childhood,
I might wander the aisles of a thrift Store,
seek out an old glove to sleep with,
and see if dreams of dreams come back to me.
But I can already tell that metal bats don’t carry
the allure of grass stains on ash.
