Rookie                                               for Meg   I was good -- damn good. I could bat for power and for average, my arm was strong and true, my glove as quick as a bullfrog's tongue. Hours in the cage, days on the grass -- oh, I knew I was good, all right. But days grew to years, and shadows spread across the field like stains. Waiting for the call-up, waiting to hear my name in echoes, waiting out the rain delays, hamstring pulls, bad hops -- waiting, sick with waiting -- I was no sleek, skinny kid anymore. At forty the knees played tricks, the back went bad -- high time, I knew, to rid myself of games, of dreams.                                               That's when you called. The Yankees, you said.                                               And I said, Play ball.     © Michael Fleming New York, New York June, 2002   top of page  other sonnets  shorter poems  longer poems               e-mail to Mike  Fox Paws home page