A Deep River Year - 2017

Saturday was the opening day of Little League, one of those annual events that mark time in a small town. A couple of hundred kids showed up at the park, along with assorted coaches, parents, grandparents, brothers and sisters, neighbors and relatives. Dressed in team jerseys and ball caps, the kids came in all ages and shapes. Some of the littlest ones, assigned to team that play a beginner's game called T-ball, seemed to be having a hard time lifting their ample leather baseball gloves off the ground. Others were more interested in the snack shack where hot dogs were being grilled at 10 in the morning.


But baseball is a big deal. It's our national game, still, and lots of those kids nurse a dream of hitting a home run or making an over-the-shoulder catch against the outfield fence that wins the game. I played myself, long ago--second base, as I recall. I wasn't very good, but I still remember hitting a ball that rolled through the legs of an outfielder and allowed me to make third base before I stumbled and fell. The next time I came to bat all the fielders backed up. It was my most satisfying moment.
I coached a kids' team one summer decades ago. My goal was to help my kids have fun, and they did. They turned out to be pretty good, too. So good, in fact, that in one game I had our players stealing first base after they had already made it to second. It sure confused the umpire. That same game my team got so far ahead that in the last inning, while they were out in the field, they intentionally threw the ball wildly all over the place so that the smallest player on the other team could make a home run. We all cheered when it happened. It was my happiest game of all time.


Play Ball


Out there in right field,
 the outer limits
 of the baseball solar system,
 he stands ankle deep
 in the green grass of Spring.
 Far away, the pitcher flings
 the ball toward home,
 and a batter squints,
 heart racing wildly,
 and swings.
 The coach is yelling,
 the crowd is on their feet
 screaming encouragement,
 and dust flies as young dreamers
 race toward home.
 But out there
 in the far field
 is another joy--
 the smell of leather
 as a small fist
 pounds a perfect pocket,
 waves at his father
 who, under an arching maple,
 waves back and smiles
 as a hawk circles
 in the sweet blue sky,
 and for a moment,
 the world is perfect.


--Timothy Haut