A poem moves in center, a blur beneath the summer sun at the warning track. A defiance of gravity, a leap of flannel faith in leather and grace. The white pill against the green snagged, a comet stolen from the sky and robbing the batter. The throw, a crisp crimson streak stitching outfield to infield, a seam in the impossible.
We too reach for the scorching catch. Hope to snag the unexpected, the searing curveball life hurls at us. We dream to spin and launch, to defy boundaries, the whispering doubts, the odds against us. The roar of the crowd fades, the memory of the wondrous catch a bittersweet echo. In the imperfect arc of bending words, lives a quiet hero. The game continues, under endless blue skies, the heat unforgiving. The scent of freshly cut grass, the pop of a ball meeting leather or wood—the music of effort and grace.
And even in the fumbled glove, the missed connection, the bobbled throwing errors, there's a dignity in daring, in taking the chance. Though a loss hits us, hard as a diamond, there is a Willie Mays in us all, forever running, leaping, and throwing the world back home.
"I wasn't the best hitter, Ted Williams was. I wasn't the best fielder, Roberto Clemente was. I wasn't the best base stealer, Maury Wills was. But I was among the best in everything." -Willie Mays