The Forever Sport of Writing

It seems that writer's writing skills (as is true of any of life's endeavor)

Must be learned, developed and honed by those who care enough to persevere;

And it's the word “skills” that brings to mind spring’s stirrings in a young boy,

When the sap and juices begin to flow in the direction of the great Game of Summer.

I search through the deepest depths of the closet of my mind to find,

And tie on that pair of worn, torn, and spiked spikes;

And I search under the bed for a boy's most treasured possession:

A Whitey Ford, mine was (the piece of leather known as “mitt”).

I rummage through Dad’s garage to find that rusty can of neat's-foot oil,

To sit in cool shade on side stoop, to feel summer breezes through dirty T-shirt,

While massaging that oil into treasured leather, into seams,

Excess under fingertips, and across faded dungarees;

Ever-anxious to throw and catch and hit.

It's those peaceful hours of boyish, dreamy anticipation;

Anxious for season to begin, a replay of yesterday and yesteryear,

Remembering the unique tug of spikes ripping through lush green grass,

Or digging to loosen infield clay, or stepping to the rubber on elevated mound.

It’s feeling the foul sting of the bat, and the magic crunch of wood on hardball,

Launching white leathered orb towards the sun and over right field fence;

Or the race across center field pasture to catch up to a white speck falling out of the blue,

The cheer of the crowd for that moment in the Sun.

It’s looking back year after yesteryear to the heroes that come and go,

Visits to Ebbett’s Field, Yankee Stadium, the Polo Grounds, and Shea;

It’s about ballpark smells: the peanuts, the hot dogs, and beer out of waxed paper cups;

And announcers pointing out this player's and that player's statistics—and about slumps.

Thoughts skip to that horrible sound of metal spike rasping on buried rock,

And how they feel digging for second base, carrying life's expectancies to beat another throw.

Thoughts turn to the infamous writer's block, toward an unknown path and unknown end,

Yet all the time believing ideas and rambling thoughts will find a way.

Well, now the walk's not to the mound, but to the pond in search of another spring,

And to hear the sound of nature, to see images and reflections, to ponder life;

Thoughts eternal, waiting to be tossed chaotically by the tornado of another day;

Another day filled with hope, a day that carries the writer to another night.

Through all those years re-lived, thoughts still turn to slumps and batting averages,

Through all those years re-lived, thoughts turn to runner's cunning to beat pitcher and catcher;

Cheating away from first, waiting for the invisible sign that says go;

Then racing to the future, chased by fear of failure, joined by visions of glory.

And the writer dreams, searching through figments of the imagination,

Finding, at times, frustration; finding, at times, wonder;

Remembering the thrill of holding in calloused hand a brand new baseball,

Leather held firm by laced symmetry, white and unscathed for the moment until the game begins.

The summer sky is a big blue sign, its puffy white formations a reminder to the writer,

When he writes—and when he doesn't—to throw, to catch, to run, to swing the bat,

To keep an ever-watchful eye; for all that’s really important is remembering

How many games exist within the game, and that one gets to play at all.

---Dace R.  MacDaniels