When I was ten I’d go to the lot,
my friends and I throw the ball about.
We’d be wearing white, blue and tan
and we all seem to know and understand.
How this game is played, so simple, yet
without delay or even bets.
We’d toss a bat, back and forth
and perch our fingers on top its berth.
Then point to one another thus,
and stick to with picks, from dawn to dust.
As we ran the bases round,
we’d kick us dust from the sandy ground.
The dust would glisten in the sun,
like rays from heaven, thus blessed upon.
And sliding into bags and home,
either all at once or all alone.
While every cloud of sparkled sand,
would twinkle in the light from clapping hands.
That field was no park with flowing grass,
but a sandlot littered with cans and glass.
A small patch of joy and friends,
of arguments and make amends.
Were friends for life, on dusty sands,
were every bonded when shaking hands.
Boys to men, into the future we went,
remembering those days in sand we spent.
Not fame nor glory did we seek those days,
just the joy of baseball in that dusty haze.
I sit here now, on a bench with cane,
thinking of my pals that played this game.
And although I know that some are gone,
I can still hear their voices in the early dawn.
But most of all when a gust would spin,
and catch the dust in the wind.
How is twirls and turns and kicks up the sand,
like sparkle and glitter from clapping hands.