The Call

Like many kids of the 1950s, I loved baseball.

I played on teams throughout my youth and in 1964

I received an invitation to spring training camp

for a tryout with the Pittsburgh Pirates.

I'm still waiting to hear from them.
In the meantime, I've been writing a few poems...

I may have lost a step or two,

(Or four, or six, or eight).

My bat speed may have slowed a bit,

(Much like a rusty gate).

My fastball may have lost some pop,

My slider may be have slid,

But when I dream of baseball,

I become a kid.

A glint of steel in my young stare,

Swagger in my stride,

I saunter to the plate

With confidence and pride.

A fastball down the middle,

I swing with all my might,

Old Rawlings soars past the crowd

And deep into the night.

There I am in summer’s glow

Warmed by hometown cheers,

Rounding third and striding home,

Back to my boyhood years.

Suddenly I’m sixty-six

Asleep in winter’s sun,

Dreaming of what might have been

When I was twenty-one.

Still I wait to take the call,

To hear them say my name,

An old man dreaming of the day

He played a young man’s game.  

©Charles Ghigna