Within a week of the longest day
the coaches gather to select the All-Stars,
who will later be noticeable by the angle
of their cap, and the degree
of their 10-year-old swagger.
The parents know the bulk of the chosen
before the event takes place.
There is, for instance, the kid who looks
seventeen despite his birth certificate,
the prodigy who just might be
Shoeless Joe reincarnate, along with
that tiny boy with a terrible fastball,
and the kid who hits everything.
These guys are unquestioned.
It is the fringe players that spark
a murmuring of discontent
among those in the bleachers, like
That kid's had 1 hit in the last 5 games.
or He's walked more batters than
his total strikes thrown. but his dad's
friends with Joe's dad. Ohhhhh.
And so it takes the shape of political scandal
as adults impose their seedy world
on the ball fields of children.
On the night of the longest day
the players will take the field once more
with their home teams. The All-Stars
are ready for tournaments tomorrow, while
the other boys will step into the batter's box
with their usual blend of confidence and hope
mixed with a deceptive sense of loss,
perhaps an inkling of regret.
With the smell of kid-sweat and
fresh cut grass in his nose,
a fringe player who didn't make the cut
cracks a hot single through the infield
and rounds first. Stepping back to the bag
he rests his hands on his knees and
hears the applause one last time.
He hasn't told his parents yet,
but this will be his last game. He's tired
of the bullshit. He may be 10 years old,
but he's not stupid. So, as the sun sets
on his small town, the boy readies himself
for that first stride to second base,
for that first step into retirement.
