"The life of a soul on earth longer than his departure." - Outfielder Murcer quoting philosopher-poet Angelo Patri at Thurman Munson's funeral, 1979
After your ascent into the
broadcast booth, then higher
into the rites
of the front office,
your soul still roams the field,
combs it for hits
that never got through.
Your ear cocks
for that song: the body
raining hard on the basepath.
In Florida, when you pick up a bat,
the deep woods stir.
A practice swing and the river
jumps into your wrists.
You make good contact
with that world
you've seen from the moon.
As if the Yankees remember
your words: "A man lives on
in the life of others,"
they hand you a miracle; you sign.
What is lonely as one hit
in twelve at-bats?
Call it a rain dance
in the season of old bones,
your playing four games
while the trees grow back,
your fist, stone,
as you dream back your speed,
fun faster than you can run.
Hummers, Knucklers, and Slow Curves
Edited by Don Johnson
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