God has numbered every strand
upon your head and knows your name
designed you well, by His own hand
and put you in, to play the game.

Synthetic grass needs lots of care
out in left field, looking down
just like the stuff they weave in hair
and then that old familiar sound.

the ball's been hit, straight down left field
reality and daydream blurred
the guy on second tries to steal
but can't outrun your throw to third.

He's out but then that guy on first
has stolen base and now on second,
thoughts on grass are in your face
because your left field mind has beckoned.

Vision sharp, and body strong
and under cap, your brain recalled
the numbers given to each strand
upon your head shaved mostly bald.

and then another sudden crack
awakens player from the norm
the far left fielder plays it out
and crowds applause while you perform.