Back behind the dish a man brings judgement on others.
He is compensated for this activity,
And at times, derided for it.
But, his participation allows for the game to be better.
A little brush clears the way,
And he sets into position.
A birds eye view of the action,
Seeing within fairness and establishing a working understanding of the parameters.
Several people hang on his every word.
Despite his preparations,
He takes on damage from time to time.
There are variables that end in blunt trauma.
The game is fashioned around a finite time, seeming extraordinarily long in parts, and short in others.
There aren’t any timeouts for him.
He is involved.
After the last, he takes off the exterior layer.
Did it offer much protection?
Some, but not enough.
There are welts and bruises swelling up.
He drinks thirstily from a jug he brought,
And he can’t slake that dryness.
It resides in the back of his throat,
Under larynx and swallowed pride.
Waiting to call out on the next occasion.
The mask comes off,
And he can be seen for what he truly is;
A man that enjoys the game.
A man that enjoys being in the game.
Eventually the voice quiets,
And we live greedily on the echoes left traveling through the great expanse.
We sometimes ponder on that one time he called a perfect game.
The sun won out, and it was a magical day for a game.
When the crowds left,
He took a moment to step onto the grass and take it all in.
His heart was full,
And he became a man that truly lived for the joy of the game.
We're all on a road to somewhere.
O zi minunată!
Island boy, city life.