My Day

A pick-up softball game,

Sides chosen randomly.

I was 25 on that hot summer day,

Happy to borrow a mitt and head to short.

We ranged from 15 to 40 plus.

A ground ball was likely to be played into a double,

But not if it came to me.

The baseball gods were giving me this day.

My first at bat I drove the ball into left center,

And by the time the ball stopped rolling

Over the unenclosed field,

I had reached home.

Before the game was over

I had crushed three homers,

One over the center-fielder’s head,

He who had said it couldn’t be done.

50 years later it is the memory

Of a pop behind third base that brings a smile.

I don’t know why I took-off 

Before the batter had finished his swing.

That ball could have been a dribbler back to the mound

Or a grounder to the space I had deserted,

But not this day.

This day that ball was mine.

It hung under a cloudless sky,

Teasing me to reach it before it landed.

Gravity, the foul line and me

In a race to claim that sucker.

With throttle wide-open 

I moved my glove hand across my body,

Staggering slightly on the uneven ground,

And closed my hand on a catch that should have become a legend.

And in my mind,  it remains just that.