I wasn’t sure how old he was,
I don’t think even he knew.
Age never seemed to matter much
On the days that Satchel threw.

He always had a ready smile
Especially up there on the mound.
And I’m sure he had more pitches
Than I had fingers to put down.

With time his fastball had slowed a bit
But it never seemed to matter.
He’d just reach into his bag of tricks
To strike out another batter.

He didn’t have an ounce of fat;
He was sinewy and lean.
He might have been a grandpa
But he could still pitch for my team.

Old father Time stepped up to the plate
In a match anticipated
Well you can check the box score, friend.
Time left ticked off and deflated.