By John Shea
.Reflections on viewing an otherwise unidentified 1880s player listing in the old MacMillan baseball encyclopedia
Which hand you threw with.
When was your birthday.
How tall you stood.
The simple fact of your demise
A mere assumption, an
Perhaps you’re hanging on still somewhere,
Raging, shaking your fist at God.
What we can be sure of:
One fine afternoon,
Before some long-forgotten scribe,
You stood on a hill
And kissed infinity.
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