On A Field They Call A Diamond

On a field

they call a diamond,

in a league

that goes by little

 

where the big kids

strut in the majors

and the young ones

swing at a tee

 

where the crack of the bat

sounds like “my hometown,”

and the waft of the mitt

smells like tomorrow’s nostalgia

 

where playing ball

is best with buddies,

and chants and cheers

compose the soundtrack

 

where grass stains

are worn like medals

and red dirt

clings to knickers

 

where post-game pictures

mean piggyback poses,

and concession slushies

reign supreme

 

where ball caps

frame big bright eyes,

and black smudged cheeks

mark wide-faced grins

 

where a win

produces heroes,

and a loss

is consoled with hugs

 

where each new season

sees them grow,

and Cooperstown

visits their dreams

 

where the dugout

feels like a backyard clubhouse,

and the sidelines

feel like community

 

where a home run

is greeted by whooping teammates,

And a strike-out

is met with encouragement.

 

where seeds

are shared like candy,

and a pickle

grabs our attention

 

where childhood

is celebrated,

and a red-stitched ball

brings us together

 

there is a whisper forming

they’ll hear in days to come,

and when they look back

something inside will smile and say -

 

those... were good days.