The Game of Life
Swen Nater

The Little League game was about to begin
On a perfectly wonderful day.
One team sprinted out
With a spirited shout,
As 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
As 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, with quickness and skill,
When it seemed as thought death cast its fate,
On the double he caught
What the grave almost got,
And threw lifelessness out at the plate.

The outfield consisted of no lesser men.
Three statesmen with not one reproach.
On third was a preacher
On second a teacher
And on first, 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.