Sestina
Every young boy has the same dream:
The grass,
The crack of hitting a round ball square,
The epic moment
Where every star-struck eye
In the crowd is focused on you.
But now the crowd is only
The fervent fathers of the other boys,
Future stars—in baseball or in life,
Roaming the same grass our ancestors roamed
Before—this epic shift in civilization
Seemingly summed up by each deafening crack.
Soon enough the crack of the bat shrunk compared
To the crack of kids’ heads hitting lockers, an eager crowd watching
As the epic dream of a life in baseball suddenly
Not so possible to this young boy, the
Sacred grass of the ball field, now a feared recess
Where the once future stars don’t shine so bright—
Not as bright as the white lights that scout
promised. Cracker jacks now sold at the game not bought,
Grass mowed as short as some careers—daily,
The crowds now loud enough to drown the howls of disapproving fathers.
A new family, a new father, new brothers in the form of the other boys,
Each dreaming of their own epic shot
At an epic career, an unforgettable moment, game, season—
Anything that might make the scouts write simply: “star.”
Only a select few of those boys
Get to feel the crack of major league wood,
Hear the crowd flirting with the organist,
Reach down and feel the same grass the greats once grasped,
The greenest grass—that makes the true lovers of the
Game wonder why some only play for that epic money—
Wonder why the crowd is no longer enough,
Wonder why these stars are fueled no longer
By the once deafening crack, but the cashing of
Checks—silhouettes of the boys they once were.
Is the grass really greener here?
He always said as a boy he’d play for
Nothing—the crowd, breathless from each
Crack, was enough.
The epic life he always dreamed of
On that shooting star, never eclipsing the religion of the game.