Sunday morning on a dusty local diamond,
We gather together around about nine.
We try to recapture the glory of our youth
With bodies that, decidedly, are well past their prime.

I strike a line drive between two chubby fielders
By the time I reach third I am gasping for breath.
The coach waves his arms to encourage me home
But what I need now is an oxygen tent.

Charlie got sunburned and Eddy got drunk
Johnny went hitless and James split his pants.
When the last out is made we have lost ten to seven.
We all dreamed of the Pros, but we hadn’t  a chance.

We repair to Shenanigans to have some libations,
Some burgers and brews will ease aches and pains
We share dubious tales of our former glories;
When talent has faded- illusions remain.