Swen Nater
The Little League game was about to begin,
On a perfectly, wonderful day.
One team sprinted out
With a spirited shout,
For the boys were excited to play.
As their coach saw the field, with his players in place,
A vision took over his sight.
Each Little League lad
Grew the age of a dad,
Complete with the beard and the height.
His pitcher, an artist, composed to create
On a canvas awaiting and bare.
His stroke on the ball
Made it spin and then fall
When it curved and it carved through the air.
His catcher, a general, positioned in place,
Was leading the rest of the pack.
On his signal and sign,
They joined to combine,
With a quick and successful attack.
His shortstop, a surgeon, whose quickness and skill,
When it seemed as though death cast its fate,
On the double, he caught,
What the grave almost got,
And threw lifelessness out at the plate.
His outfield consisted of no lesser men:
Three statesmen with not one reproach.
On third was a preacher,
And on second, a teacher,
On first was a Little League coach.
As the vision grew fainter, the coach stopped and thought.
The epiphany cut like a knife.
Baseball was more
Than a game and a score;
It was practice for the game of life.
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