Here's a riddle for the sharp of wit
A doodle on a catcher's mitt
Was hiding in the attic crack
Long-held secrets stowed in back.
Rubbed to a thin and pale grey
Likely from use and abuse from play
That mitt lost its shine years before
Tanning lotions can not restore.
Fancy dots did make some artsy lines
Too bad they don't count as a run
Sitting in the dugout, scratching the ground
Thwack! What a lovely sound
When that bat met that hard-thrown baseball
The weaved quilted seams almost flew off the hide
Everyone stared and gasped as that ball turned left
They all prayed when catcher glove doodler got all messed.
He now lay on the ground, "Are you okay?" they asked
"I'm fine" he remarked, "But I see spots" as he looked for his mitt
"My head hurts too" I need to sit, for a bit,
Perhaps in the shade under that big tree, with my mitt.
That is when he finished the doodle
That was the time of reckoning
Under a tree, next to the diamond,
It was the end of days, a new beginning.
They found him later, spotted glove and all
How did this happen? Did he fall?
His mitt still clutched in his hand
In the other one, he was drawing
What it is to be a man.
Now you know the tale of this glove
Tossed aside but still loved
Doodles fade and so do dots
But we will remember that cherished spot
Where our son doodled his last dots.
