I remember so well of yesterday,
of passing memories that came my way.
Of cheering crowds that seem to say
how glad they were when I made the day.
From the dugout hall that lead me up
to the benches filled with chew and cups.
The rattle of bats and the screech of cleats,
as I found my way and took my seat.
It was like a new day, that phase I was in,
a place that looked so neat and trim.
Of grass that was cut so neat and clean,
all within the lines that gleamed.
For fair and foul were those lines so true,
as shouted out by the man in blue.
But enough of gander and a moment’s stare,
if I could only go back to foul or fair.
A simple phrase, not hard to say,
in fact I’ve heard it said in many ways.
I’ve heard loud and I’ve heard it soft,
I’ve even heard it not at all.
By a simple gesture, a point made there,
by the man in blue, pointing in the air.
I remember holding my bat and twitch,
waiting for that perfect pitch.
And then with a swing of my might bat,
I watch the ball rise the hook on back.
Foul! Was the cry from blue, like he knew,
as I squeezed my bat, and spat my chew.
Again and again I recall the time,
when once and a while I would really shine.
Fair! Was the call and on base I’d go,
I’d stand there smugly and put on a show.
And thus the days rolled on to weeks,
then months and years while I was at my peak.
I took for granted those days and lines,
of fair and foul that I thought were mine.
But one never really owns this game of fair and foul,
we only borrow it for just a while.
Garnish these days my youngest friend,
for someday you’ll be here and wishing when.
When the days of your winter, start with fall,
when you wish you could hear - fair and foul.