Grace

When I first saw him 

arms, especially the right one, nearly reaching his knees

long lashed large eyes gazing low in humility 

he seemed from a different time

Flannel uniform draped over gangly frame 

cap pushed back, a pleasant smile 

comfortable as a well-worn shoe for an 11-year-old boy 

a fit like a lifelong friend

Aromas of spit tobacco, green grass, dirt and sweat 

hung in the dugout air

as he ambled over slowly 

cleats crunching split sunflower shells 


“How ya doin’ mister”
poured off his tongue like syrup
“Good”
was all I could muster

He reached around to the back pocket of his baggy pants

and extended a booklet 

gray, red and yellow
“Here, you might enjoy this”

Entranced I barely gave it a glance

blurting “Thank you mister” as he moved away effortlessly 

pausing briefly to turn and smile again 

before disappearing into the clubhouse

Home I poured over those 96 pages again and again:

“Pitchin’ Man, ‘Satchel’ Paige’s own story” 

as told to Hal Lebovitz 

25 cents

Copyright 1949
indeed
he was from a different time
“My God!” came to mind

One of the greatest stars in baseball once 

here a dozen years later, age 55 or so
with the nondescript Beavers in my hometown 

still playing the game

Never did see him again in the flesh 

but thrilled when I read he made the show one more time

three shutout innings for Kansas City 

at the age of 59

“Three innin’s is just like an appetizer” 

he said in Chapter 21 

no doubt he could have gone more
if they’d let him

Though he’s long gone now
those innocent days call out often

burnished by passing time
oh to see him again