No leagues then.
No attendance while men walked streets,
jobs scarce as hits off Satchel.
the one-time Baby Bull
Good days were gone,
so we barnstormed for gas, bed, and meals,
until Jesse proved us with four medals,
and Hitler had to leave the stands instead
of having to pin them on. That
was the bent way of a world we'd
sailed to in holds, chained to walls
and one another-which we learn
and live with. Except
on the field, when a new ball is
unpacked, and a rosin bag plops in dirt,
and your pure sweat starts to crown
aspiration and comic relief and curve.
And you toe the rubber, take your look in,
and throw the whole thing with a snap of
fingers, and watch four seams grip air,
bite that last black inch of plate and know
no music goes with you like this
all the distance.
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