If i could only make it to first!

It’s a glorious place, with all of that space, requiring speed and a burst.
Just a distance away, it’s not out of my way, if I could only make it to first!

Repeated I’ve tried, with short and long strides, to make it and quench there my thirst,
but as hard as I try, with short and long strides, I just can’t make it to first!

Now maybe it’s the bat, that’s holding me back, to heavy or light as it seems,
But whatever the reason, throughout the season, I’m still far from my dream.

If just once I could say, on any given day, how I stood there proud and relaxed,
But again, and again, still with no grin, I’ve failed and been given axe!

It’s a stupid ole bag, the one that I shag, over and over again,
I shouldn’t look back, nor should I track, were only heros have been.

Well, today is the day, when I’ll try as I may, to reach that ole bag as I must,
that distance away, that still has me say, I know I’m gonna go bust!

So the lumber I hold, so bravely and bold, I’ll take my hacks in the box,
I dig in my spikes, I grunt with delight, with shoulders as big as an ox.
For today is the day, I’ll hear all them say, as the pitcher darns and curse,
because yes sir-ee, it was all up to me, the day I made it to first!

Now here comes the pitch, as it spins stitch by stitch, down and away as it glides,
but today I will say, that’s my pitch on the way, as I hit it and give it a ride.

I’m off like a shot, on the base path I dart, on the lime line I grip with my spikes,
I can hear the clay grind, as I race in my mind, and I open my eyes to the site,
it’s first base that I see, with all its glory, just waiting to make it all right.

For all of these years, frustration and tears, I’ve never made to first,
and as hard as I tried, to be on that side, I’ve never did quench all my thirst.

Oh my gosh, could be true, a called did I hear at this place,
for man in blue who looked at me true, pointed and then call me “SAFE!”

I stood there a while, with only a smile, knowing my true destined fate,
for today was day, I could honestly say, on first I truly was safe.

But hold on here, what do I hear, a rumble and shaking of air,
for I look to the sky and there for my eyes were rain clouds forming up there.

With the rain heavy in air, I thought it not fair, that my presence would cause such a stir,
for it was only one base, my own little space, but all went away in a blur.
I was soaked to the skin, from my head to my shins as my coach looked over and grinned,
come on in son, he said with a smile, you’ve been there a while, and with luck you’ll get there again.

Now although I wanted to leave, and dry from that rain,
leaving gave me such pain,
I had wanted it so, to stand there and know, and my heart just wanted to burst,
that today was the day, at least I could say - I finially made it to first.

Coach B.

I would like to give Coach Baker kudos for that poetry.

It reminded me of my father’s favorite poet, one Robert W. Service. It is a strange combination, a steelworker and a lover of poetry but he could quote Shakespear and Service at will. This one, he knew by heart and would tuck me in bed at night with a dramatic rendition…

[quote]The Cremation of Sam McGee
Published by Webmaster on 2003/7/21 (110595 reads)
There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.

Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows.
Why he left his home in the South to roam 'round the Pole, God only knows.
He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell;
Though he’d often say in his homely way that he’d “sooner live in hell”.

On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail.
Talk of your cold! through the parka’s fold it stabbed like a driven nail.
If our eyes we’d close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn’t see;
It wasn’t much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee.

And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow,
And the dogs were fed, and the stars o’erhead were dancing heel and toe,
He turned to me, and “Cap,” says he, “I’ll cash in this trip, I guess;
And if I do, I’m asking that you won’t refuse my last request.”

Well, he seemed so low that I couldn’t say no; then he says with a sort of moan:
“It’s the cursed cold, and it’s got right hold till I’m chilled clean through to the bone.
Yet 'tain’t being dead – it’s my awful dread of the icy grave that pains;
So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you’ll cremate my last remains.”

A pal’s last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail;
And we started on at the streak of dawn; but God! he looked ghastly pale.
He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee;
And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee.

There wasn’t a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven,
With a corpse half hid that I couldn’t get rid, because of a promise given;
It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say:
“You may tax your brawn and brains,
But you promised true, and it’s up to you to cremate those last remains.”

Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code.
In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load.
In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring,
Howled out their woes to the homeless snows – O God! how I loathed the thing.

And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow;
And on I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low;
The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in;
And I’d often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin.

Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay;
It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the “Alice May”.
And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum;
Then “Here,” said I, with a sudden cry, “is my cre-ma-tor-eum.”

Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire;
Some coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher;
The flames just soared, and the furnace roared – such a blaze you seldom see;
And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee.

Then I made a hike, for I didn’t like to hear him sizzle so;
And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow.
It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don’t know why;
And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky.

I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear;
But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near;
I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: “I’ll just take a peep inside.
I guess he’s cooked, and it’s time I looked”; . . . then the door I opened wide.

And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar;
And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and he said: “Please close that door.
It’s fine in here, but I greatly fear you’ll let in the cold and storm –
Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it’s the first time I’ve been warm.”

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.[/quote]

I wonder…

Do kids even get tucked into bed anymore?

Do kids learn poetry in school???


[quote=“Dino”]I wonder…

Do kids even get tucked into bed anymore?

Do kids learn poetry in school???


I’m not sure, what is this world coming to?

We don’t learn poetry in school. Most kids consider it “gay”. I don’t, I write poetry all the time.