Dirty Leather

A hardball thrown by pitchers,
A four-seamer high and hard,
To a batter who fearless can,
Knock the ball out of the yard.

But balls and bats are pieces,
Of equipment to be played,
It’s the heart of the player,
From a boy to man is made.

The stains on the knees,
The tar on the hands,
Butter-rich smells of leather,
Yelling fans in the stands.

Running faster than the throw,
Sliding clean into home,
Smells of locker rooms,
The mix of players’ monochrome.

When lights shine on the diamond,
And players trot on the field,
Their dreams to be fulfilled,
By a game that wholly heals.