The Autumn Boys of Summer

They say it is the love of the game--
a way to stay active in a stalagmite world--
a refusal to allow hip surgeons
to define the good life.

If I didn't play baseball, they say,
I would be watching daytime TV,
or belching beer on my bib.

They take another cut at an imaginary ball,
and hide a wince. Damned arthritis, they think,
is all that stands between them
and a Texas line-drive
halfway to Texas.

They are TOTs: Tucson Old Timers.
They play baseball: something like
Toys-R-Us with grownup toys.

The By-Laws say you have to be sixty,
but their secret is that they are kids
playing a grown-up- game
when the bat is too heavy
and the ball too hard.
They are peanut brittle in a caramel world.

They are the tots of summer,
boys forever, finally able to afford
the time it takes to break into a run.

Nice job, Arnie!, the catcher yelled: Atta boy!,
and Arnie pretended it was nothing,
the way men do.

How much pay do we get
for chasing these balls?, the pigtail asks,
and we laugh like kids.

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