“Just one more inning, dad,”

my boys say with a cry

that carries me back to my own boyhood.

Back then, the boys of summer 

played a game that never ended.

It picked us up

all summer long,

as we’d pick it up where we’d left off

and play daily from dawn till dusk.

As darkness crept in,

parents would call from up and down the street,

and we would go home, begrudgingly,

but only after one more inning.

We smelled of sweat and leather, 

grass stains and dirt — 

dust so far up the nose 

you could smell it with your brain.

I still can. 

We’d sleep and dream

of that only sport worthy of heaven.

The pleas of my boys remind me now,

there must be baseball there, 

this game that never ends, 

and of my youth, and of

eternal beginning.