SPRING TRAINING

When I was a boy
spring’s blessing was a mixed one.
Yes, it was warm enough
to dig out my battered glove
from the pile of junk in the closet,
go outside and throw the tennis ball
against the wall
of the garage and pretend
I was the starting pitcher
for Connie Mack’s A’s
in their first preseason
game in Florida.

But the same sun that lured
me outside for such fantasy
likewise woke the grass.
"Lawn needs mowed"
my father would say,
which was not an observation
but an order.
The neighbors had a power mower.
We did not.
And you can believe it or not
but I swear to you
our lawn was bigger than the outfields
of the Polo Grounds,
Ebbets Field,
and Yankee Stadium.
Combined.