by Philip Pecorino
On which eyes must be fixed by all,
that orb which provides the game with half its name,
held by the defense as in no other team game.
Of materials simple or mixed:
spherical rock or cowhide and stitches,
bundle of yarn, rolled up sock,
no matter of regulation or meeting specifications:
to be held and caressed, tossed, hurled, thrown and caught nonetheless.
The object of pulverization by the offense
and of possession by the defense,
of dreams held in small hands under covers at bedtime
of desire caught fair or foul by fans in stands during game time.
Scuffed scratched or dirtied,
taken out of play in the majors,
hide half off, still of use in the sandlots.
At the same time its condition is not important at all while its importance is all,
For Phil’s reflections on the base, check out his poem from last fall.
Published in Fans, Free Verse, The Game Itself, Youth | Link to this poem | No Comments