|
|
Sandlot Dreams
In my childhood, I used to play baseball with my friends all day.
We would put on our favorite cap, then grab our old glove,
And head to the sandlot, the vacant lot beside Danny's house.
My little brother would take flour and line off the field before we got out of school;
And then stand like a scarecrow keeping the birds away until we arrived.
We gathered and played ball until dark with our heads full of our sandlot dreams.
The ball was well worn with a stitch or two broken and frayed;
No longer the bright white like those in the store, but now its the color of clay.
Danny had a bat that the Astro's once used, broken, but with nails and tape;
It's like new to us, as we hold in our hands the bat once used by professionals.
A young oak tree stands where first base is as the tree serves two purposes;
Not only is it first base, but a tall lanky sure handed first baseman named Woody.
We have a backboard behind home plate with a line drawn for a strike zone;
As the pitcher throws at the black painted square on the wall.
These timeless days we played ball without adult supervision or coaching;
We were just kids playing; we become our favorite heroes when we come to the plate.
Mickey Mantle, Carl Yastrzemski, Hank Aaron, Pete Rose, and Ron Santo;
They all roamed the field down the block where all of our sandlot dreams were fulfilled.
Some days we broke out the whiffle ball to add the excitement of the curveball and slider;
Other times we would just throw the ball for hours playing catch and dreaming.
This dirt field with rocks and occasionally a shard of broken glass from an old Ripple bottle;
But to us this was a sparkling baseball diamond, where dreams meet reality in a kids mind.
No need to organize into teams run by adults, just leave us alone and let us play.
I never had to sit the bench when playing on this field of sandlot dreams.
7May09
Poetry Ad-Free Upgrades
|
|
|
