[Six and growing, I wondered why
I couldn’t marry mommy and live
On Townsend Street forever.]
Seven and growing, I played baseball
Day and night, diving
For grounders, liners, and lobs
Across the front yard.
Dad or the chimney throwing to me
Until no light lit the summer nights—
Looking forward to when I could
Play for real.
Not good, not bad; just fun, dreaming
Of being Molitor, Yount, Gantner,
Cooper, Thomas, or Oglivie.
But never really wishing
I was anyone but me—
Limitless potential; no regrets, except
For not being old enough.
Eight and still growing, not knowing
What was in store, but wanting, needing more.
Nine and still growing, baseball was for real
And so was I—early first round
Draft pick pitcher. Nine years old against
A twelve year-old league.
Ten and still growing