First Sight

To see it again
And yet for the first time
Because I want to
Or will myself to
As something stirs within
It is the confirmation of spring and
Once more I walk through the
Turnstile and corridors
Until sunlight’s glare
Causes me to squint
But I must look to
See the field,
New, yet familiar
Facing homeward
Across tight grass, that shifts
Ever so slightly with the
Afternoon breeze
Smooth soil awaiting
Perfect white lines
I go early for this view,
Usually with my youngest son,
There are few people

For some it is only a game
But it is more
It is flesh and soul
Memories of being with others
Watching, cheering
Talking of something, anything,
Maybe the game
Words drift toward stories of
Work and family
On rare occasions deeper matters
Are whispered to those most trusted

The ball rockets off a bat
And I jump, we all jump
Strangers become friends
And celebrate as one,
Grin, touch, nod
Sit and return to conversations,
Always keeping an eye on the field
Through sunshine and rain-delays

Anxious rookies, who stand
At the dugout rail
Slouching over-sized boys
Refusing to grow-up,
While others are
Desperately trying to
Prove their manhood,
Some selfish over-paid stars
And a few heroic veterans
Straining for one
Last taste of glory

It is a rhythm that I
Cannot forsake
It is some others business
They own it and will
Never know me
That is fine
I own my springtime’s
My camaraderie, my hope
My memories of almost
And the pain of not enough
All of it is mine
And each spring when I return
I look at it, as if for the first time
And I am hopeful, thankful and content