I step on the curb, and glance at the bus,
that stiff long ride with all my stuff.
The ride that brought me back with age,
back to the minors, and my rusty cage.
It was only one game, that trip I had,
of fame and fortune, but all too sad.
A lonely spot on a bullpen bench,
neither mound nor rubber came forth hence.
But I did sit with the legend’s pace,
with men of grace and fame of face.
They knew their spot was forever made,
at least forever, of that day.
Their confidence just struck me so,
how strong and sure as if they’d know,
They’d never be moved from that place,
or taken away, from this pace.
Their numbers were so low, yet bright,
wether on the mound, in day or night.
Theses were the men of fame and song,
of trading cards, hats and balls.
And the kids would all gather round,
and worship these idols and their sacred ground.
Maybe some day I’ll shine so bright,
to be a Leaguer of Major’s right.
To watch those rookie’s who are coming up,
for a cup of coffee or other stuff.
I must keep the faith and believe my dream,
up for that cup of coffee, with sugar and cream.