We stand at the warning track with our
Fingers interlaced with the chain link fence,
Muscles coiled, ready to pluck like plums
The flyballs that soar twenty feet overhead,
As we talk of empty afternoons, Kazuo Ishiguro.
The ending is unearned. How can they
Be so stoic? (How indeed, you
answer, stoically, as I notice hours later.)

My shoulder aches and my throws roll
To the invisible cutoff man, dying pitifully 
In the grass. I am (I was) an infielder by trade.
Whenever I look up to track a fly, the ground
Vanishes beneath me, and I fall sideways. 
The ball spins and hisses as it ricochets
Off the heel of my glove. I force a laugh and let
It roll away. I’m too old to be what I never was.

And then it is my turn: the control group.
I coil and spin the bat with the practice
Of a thousand imagined ballgames. 
I swing as though underwater, breath held
And pull one down the line, watching
The outfielders. Always watch the outfielders.
They throw their palms against the fence.
I am not dead yet. I am not dead.

As the sun sets we gather up the balls
And I shake the age out of my sore arm
As we talk of summer in the fading daylight
Grinning like children under our masks
Telling stories of the failures of the year.
You’re quiet, but I’m too pleased to be stoic.
There’s no feeling like hitting a 228-foot fly ball
When the number on the wall says 225.