in the summertime,
within the ivy-covered walls,
upon the sun-drenched grass, the green, green grass
where full grown boys lived out my dreams,
in nine inning shares of timelessness,
to hear the thunder of Ted Williams’ bat,
to watch the smooth, smooth stride of Willie Mays,
to sit in awe of lads once like me,
but who grew up somewhere to become so much more,
these mythic figures of a mythic game,
a game once began on sandy backlots,
now continued on fields in majestic ballparks,
they are all grown up these once little boys,
grown-up beyond the reach of mortals who wear tailored grey suits as they go to work,
they live in realms of near perfection,
they walk in air beyond our own,
they are the best of the best there are
and maybe even,
oh, time will tell
the best of all who will ever be.
oh, how i love this holy place,
the crrraack of the ball sending the left fielder to the wall,
the pop of a Koufax fastball for a call, Strike Three!
the vendor pitching, ”Hot Dogs, Git your red hot, Hot Dogs!”
the rising roar of a crowd when the game’s on the line,
the out-of-tune singing when its seventh inning time.
oh, how i have loved this old, holy place,
this cathedral for boys, this cathedral of dreams,
this place most outstanding
of all places to be.
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