“Pitchers and Catchers”
for John Fenimore
My pal John stops to borrow
a set of The Sun Also Rises.
I count them into his arms
then whisper, as if we’re brothers,
“Pitchers and catchers on Friday”
and his grin assures me he can hear
the smack of sliders into stiff mitts.
At lunch the principal stops scolding
a boy for throwing a meatball
and reminds me, “Friday, pitchers
and catchers,” and I see rookies
in uniforms numbered three times
their ages next to nervous non-roster
vets who wind up and hope
their new knucklers will be enough.
But here the windows frame only
empty trees and mounds of black snow
and I wish I didn’t have to teach
“To Build a Fire” when I’m yearning
for sunny fields in Lauderdale
and Tampa, warm with baseball
chatter and the necessary dreams
of being better than before.
I’ll read the sports page this Friday
for the first time since October
and pass these ice days tossing
the words “pitchers and catchers”
to friends who are old enough
to know and young enough to believe
that winter again would come to this.
from Home Team: Poems about Baseball (Grayson Books)