The Perfect Ball

The Perfect Ball

I remember when a new baseball was my world.

As I took it from its box,

I admired its unmarred ivory beauty

Feeling its perfect roundness

In my young cupped hands.

I carefully turned the white globe

Until my fingers and thumb found their place

Along the red, raised seams,

Stitched into the smooth cover of cowhide.

Then, as I lifted it to my face,

I inhaled its sweet leathery scent

Still unmasked by grass and dirt,

Unscathed of dimpled batted bruises.

Finally, I listened for the beautiful voice.

In quiet times I coaxed it to speak,

Rich engagements filled with images

Exploits of a perfect ball.

The ball spoke of

Tufted grassy outfields,

Dusty white-chalked diamonds,

Rough-cut wooden benches,

Concrete block dugouts.

The ball spoke of

Sizzling wisps of fastballs

Sweet summer swings

Catcher mitt cannonade

Reverberations of “stee—rike!”

The ball spoke of

Red hot liners

Turf-seeking missiles

Spears of tanned hands

Flagged, stinging captives

The ball spoke of

Eager extended muscles

Perfect sweet spot slugs

Long carry drives

White stars seeking empty space

The ball spoke of

Breathless flights to empty bases

Strawberry stings of hook slides

Tagging waves of foreign hands

Cushions of safety for outstretched limbs. 

In its state of simple perfection, my Baseball had no equal. No time marked its progressions through catches, throws, and hits. I could never possess all the knowledge that lay deep within its cover, and the years that I spent learning its secrets flew too quickly through my hands.

Today, I long to step onto a field and put the baseball back into action- to let it dance with its carefree grace and to return my aging body to its once youthful presence. But, I am content to find my dream world still pulled from a little cardboard box. I think human souls eternal may play baseball in their heaven since baseball was a true slice of heaven to many, like me, while on earth.