There is No Joy in Mudville

When Tim swings his bat, the fences inhale.
If the ball has loft, the fences duck their heads,
and breathe out.

Today Tim swung his bat,
the first baseman said his prayers,
and Tim ducked at the end of his swing
as if he had been hit. Then

At the game today

the rest of us said our prayers.

Something snapped.
Something tore.
Something happened.

The catcher stood there
with the ball in his hand
not understanding.

Then the first baseman breathed out,
Tim cradled one arm in the other
and walked toward the dugout.
We all rehearsed, without words,
not just dents in the fences,
but those throws from short to first.

It wasn't fair that Tim was that strong.
It wasn't fair that someone that strong
just swung his bat; and we all held our breath.

Everyone knew it was the chance they took
because everyone was there to take that chance.
When Old Timers play ball, they do not always hurt,
but they know what it is to push against the fences
in ways that young men cannot even imagine.
What once was a sprint without thought
becomes a resolution; a challenge from the decades.
A throw from third to first becomes an astronomical unit,
and swinging for the fences might rip your arm.

If you sit in the stands
at an Old Timer's game
your might not notice
the titanium hips
or the pacemakers.
Sometimes the new knees
look like Donald Duck,
and nobody sees the cholesterol.

We saw Tim swing, and we winced.
The sub went in, and the game went on,
but everyone thought about Tim,
and why we play ball, anyway.

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