Monday, March 21, 2022

Baseball Larry's Final Out - today's poem

Baseball Larry’s Final Out

 

20 years and 50 towns later, the National Anthem

and first pitch of the opener still a few hours away

Larry gets called in to talk to the skipper

and he knows and we suspect what it will mean:

 

no more overnight bus rides through sparse landscapes

Duluth to Boise or Sioux City, sticky motels in the sticks

no more rub-downs, stubbed fingers, sprained ankles

catcalls of drunken amateur statisticians, flickering field lights

 

No more late-season call-ups or snubs, no bubble gum or pine tar

no late inning zealous Christian bullpen coaches leaning in

No longer are you a player-to-be-named-later in the off-season

No next-day moves to Oklahoma, options or demotions to A-ball

 

No winter ball, Japanese scouts declining offers, spring training

No more wondering, wandering, warming up wild pitchers

No late inning defensive substitutions, Dog Days, dives for balls

mended uniforms, broken bats, worn-out spikes and glory

 

Larry stands in the grandstand shadow, nodding to the trainer

I feel my heart drop and take the walk over to wish him well

In a line of teen-age rookies, mid-career vets and old duffers

I wait my turn.  In cliche I think, Larry always left it on the field

 

I shake his hand, look him in the eye and say You’re the player’s player,

Larry, it won’t be the same without you,” I say it and I really mean it.

Larry puts a hand on my shoulder and says, Yes, it will.  A smile wrinkles.

Oh, man.  Larry climbs down the spit-upon bush league steps one last time

 

I stare till I lose him in the morning Stadium Drive bus-stop crowd  

 

I look at the scoreboard that doesn’t say, GOODBYE, BASEBALL LARRY

But my heart lightens at the misspelled lineup in the dugout: I’m on first

batting eighth - in for Buster with his strained lat - another chance for me!

-No following Larry to the bus station for a trip to Dubuque or home today

 

I start taking grounders and think of him at the bus station sipping a beer

making non-existent plans: a sports memorabilia shop, a coaching job

You never dream of life after your career, just about getting another shot

until your last baseball card is just a blurred image of a long bus ride home

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