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Stephen Nakatani / CC BY 2.0

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The Old Catcher’s Mitt

sits on a shelf, forgotten save when I open
the closet, and feel my aching knees complain
of hours spent crouched behind home plate
where I had no thought of any consequence
other than winning or losing;

sun spills through a half-opened window, bringing
voices of lads in an open field playing three flies up,
the smell of spring blossoms and new mown grass,
decades-old cries of a crowd, and the chatter of an infield
and those relegated to dugouts while I crouched

behind home plate signaling pitches,
gesturing fielders left or right, in or out,
often trying to convince an ump a bad pitch
caught the corner; a door opens and closes
nearby, and the spell is broken.  The mitt is simply

old leather overdue for the trash, a repository
of nothing but juvenile memory.  It is never to be
used again, and I reach to toss it into a rubbish bin,
but its ancient smell and feel stops me, tears form,
and I am not certain for whom or what I cry,

only that the mitt will survive this visit to the closet,
and I walk gingerly away on aching knees
with joys of the past and faces long forgotten
populating my thoughts, and a sad smile engraved
on the mask I wear to greet today’s indifferent world.

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Michael L. Newell lives on the Florida coast.

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Listen to the Modern Jazz Quartet play “Baseball,” from the 1967 album, Live at the Lighthouse

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