We chase the ghosts of youth,
with glove and bat and ball;
running down the base-paths,
hoping we don't fall.
Like honey in slow motion,
we make our way to first;
panting... out of breath,
we hope our lungs don't burst.
If we're in the outfield,
we've "lost" the legs to run;
but it's the game we treasure,
it's mostly to have fun.
We laugh at our mistakes,
strikeouts and dropped flies;
it's but play... that we seek,
not self -regretted sighs.
Long gone, the grace of youth,
we muddle through the game;
and rest upon the off days,
tired... happy... lame.