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Ode To A Baseball Glove MAG
You were my father's blood brother.
His sweat became your oil, until
You were so supple you became a piece
Of his outstretched agile hand.
From those first days of Little League
When he clawed grounders
Out of too-long uncut grass,
You gave him the powerful palm of a giant.
Your swollen fingers and plump knuckles
Made dazzling saves in the bottom of the ninth,
And your lacings held the game together
Even if the team was down by five.
You were loyal whatever the weather
And you never yelled at umps or went on strike.
The only salary you requested
Was a springtime dose of Neats-foot oil
And to be rescued from the dew each night.
For twenty years you've been on the disabled list.
Nothing but a bench warmer,
A pillow on a summer day,
A collector of stones and pennies,
A relic of the past.
But once again, it's spring training time for you.
Though the other children laugh
At your out-of-date ideas,
You and my father teach us everything to know
Leather so old it is black and shiny,
And that tanned smell almost worn out,
Pocket so pounded it doesn't hold a shape,
Padding starting to come out,
You still catch every fly ball,
And behind the plate each strike still goes smack
Glove, we won't retire your number yet.