i was taught to love baseball,
first as a board game
live markers running the bases

a game where players used
a bat
instead of dice.

i loved the idea of stealing bases
and home plates
to applause and cheers
and not a set of handcuffs

i learned to love baseball
with jim.
my second, and no longer
husband

through his mind’s eye
i saw it all-

i can’t remember if we were married then
or not

it is no matter -

we loved to watch it on tv
with closeups of the cameras
the pitcher’s face
the batter’s stance
the psych-outs
and the catcher’s crouch,
in the zone,
 burdened down by protection
while
making the calls and
the signals,
and

the release of the ball,
which starts it all:
the crack of the bat -
a righteous hit -
 or the whoomp!
of the ball caught for a strike -
or the dull thwap or sharp rap
of a ball gone bad.

and most of all,
the grace of the team
the ying/yang of it all
can’t have a pitcher
without a ball
can’t throw a ball
unless there’s a batter
can’t watch your bat
unless there’s a catcher.

can’t have a team
without all pulling their best

but,to me,
the catcher is the quiet, unsung hero
weighted down and sweating
behind all the protective padding
with legs bent and cramping-
with
 the 90 mile an hour fast ball
hurtling at him
with the crack of the bat
or the whoomp of the strike,
the catch.

ah, the catcher, yes
i’ve always been the catcher -
always hunkered down these days
squat, vigilant
always on guard -

when jim was gone from my life
most of baseball went as well
i have missed baseball and i missed jim

my soul mate
with whom i cannot live
but who i cannot live without.

and,
despite all, our love remains,
and summer is just a spring season away
with the promise that together
we can recapture
my love
of baseball
as a game.