Little Leaguer

The following poem in influenced by Billy Collins' style of poetry and is a subject born close to my heart. The subject has lived as a part of the living, beating, beast of a thing inside my chest for so long I am not sure it can ever be completely removed, or should be. Thanks for reading; I hope it paints a picture of memories for you.


It's so hard for me to remember
being so early in life,
so far left at the beginning,

so small standing next to coach,
having such a tiny head in such a large cap,
even though it was snapped as tiny as it could snap,

having a giant's sized mitt barely stay on my hand--
thank God for sticky combo of sweat and dirt and leather
or that thing would have fallen off mid trot for the ball,
like the helmets often do--

that there were four outfielders
instead of the more adult three
out on the grassy part of the field.

It is hard for me to remember
the game being a means
of developing an attention span,

of demanding a couple hours of my
young, short days meant for play,
when the sun always fell down--
dropping like the shiny ball at the end of the year on tv--
far too quickly.

Do you remember when,
when it was frowned upon to
stop, bend, and pick the daisies,
or white puff balls that exploded with a blow from the lips--
or a strong gusty breeze,
or a kick from a cleat as you pretended it was a soccer ball--

when you weren't allowed to pause for that grab, that fistful of grass,
where you ripped it from the earth,
but it never had any roots,
only to let it spill back to the sea of green at gravital speed
one living thin blade at a time
before you reached for another fistful

when your name was called--in the bad way--
when you would take your miniature, pudgy pointer finger
and plunge it into the dirt,
drawing stars or other symbols,
like a heart,
or maybe a stick figure,
or your name that you can proudly spell,
or a simple, "Hi!" or "Hello"--

that was when you weren't just plopping, pushing, planting
your whole hand print into a pile of dirt you made
so it would stand out among rocks and dead grass
and chalk and sunflower seed shells?

Do you remember those days,
when the game had nothing to do with the game?
Do you remember the activities,
that are part of the game
but aren't supposed to be?

Do you remember the parts that are often kids' favorites for a long time--
possibly well into adulthood--

because not every kid does.
For some it is hard to remember.
Do you know the ones,
they tend to grow out of this frequent-free-form-distracted phase
faster than the other fidgety firecrackers...

They often don't even have these memories;
they never experienced this childish version of the game--
not from the first person.

They know about the white puff balls,
and about the daisies,
and the grass,
and the art in the dirt

from watching their teammates in the corners of their eyes,
because they were paying attention to the game.

You know the ones--
kids instilled with a work ethic,
like kids born with blue eyes,
or blond hair--
the ones who would yell at their teammates for acting like children,
instead of ballplayers.

I remember these kids...
I was one of them.

I called out names
a long, many a day ago.
Sometimes in life I still do.
There is a lot of "play" I miss out on.

Those were and are the days...
that I have difficulty remembering:

childhood

it's so hard to remember
when you were born a ballplayer.