I pay my ticket to enter the giant concrete staircase on the periphery of the bay of San Francisco.
***** Mays and other boyhood heroes would do their magic along this shore for so many years.
Now that I no longer feel the baseball enthrallmentโ because my body cannot see itself moving with such speed and graceโ I dream of a different crowd.
Homer pitching the ball, as someone must start the play; Lao Tsu striking with wood at what moves so fast it can barely be seen.
Such hollow sound as ball is soul-bound into the ether of the Psalms. Emily Dickinson snags the high hit.
The onomatopoeiac crowd lifts its unified heart to the resounding cheer of Walt Whitman on grassy outfield of bliss.
This warm day in the concrete hang-out, I see in the concrete dug-out such heavy hitters lined up for a quick swat at glory.
Maybe something soothing in between the inningsโ an oriole or an Indian foot dance, while I dream of dancing in my sox.