A few bumps and shakes and the squeak of brakes
tells me that we’ve arrived.
It’s a small motel with a counter bell,
and dark stale coffee smells.
The buzz of neon and the stains on the rugs
tells me this is the place,
not of fame or fortune my lot in life,
as I stare into space.
So I take a deep breath and gather my thoughts,
and all for not, I know I’ll be back again.
I’ve been here before, maybe not the same doors,
but I know every key and curb.
The rooms of ground floor, with paint spattered doors,
and tubs with the ring of light grey,
and so is the light, of a baseball life
away from family and wife.
I’m luckier then most, with my gracious old host
his cats, his dogs, and his bird.
Wether howling at the moon, or a bird out of tune,
it’s home I’ve called most of my life,
Two meals a day, until I get paid,
then it’s home and back to the wife.
But now thoughts turn to them, those struggling young men
whose dreams are not coming true.
I can see it their eyes, the end of their prize,
for tomorrow will be their last night.
They’ll be gone from this game, without feeling the fame,
of fortune and fans calling their name.
Homeward they’ll be bound, away from small crowds,
and grumpy ole fields with no names.
But they’ll miss the thrill, I still hold still,
that baseball holds just the same.
It’s the professional bond that holds on and on,
year after year for us all.
Year after year, no matter how old,
we never let go of the call.
I drop my gear on my bunk, a squared pile of junk,
with springs broken and worn..
And to the sounds crack and creak,
I’ll try and get some sleep.