Losing It

by Mark DeFoe

Sayonara. Adios. To their life-long skill
at flinging the ol’ horsehide. No joke, pal.
A shortstop who once fired lasers now sprays
the stands and conks Aunt Sadie, quick as she
was with her stats. A second baseman heaves
bowling balls, trying to turn the double play.
A pitcher tosses gut-shot ducks, unleashing
wacky flyers, sad missiles programmed by chance.
What used to be bee bees, are now gopher balls.

The shrinks grow perplexed, their science thwarted.
Relax, they say, picture success, try yoga,
Zen, meditate. But muscles no longer
listen to the mind. Sweet Jesus, too young.
They have beaten their hands bloody on their locker.
It’s only a game, only their soul. What lie
do they tell their kids, the wife, the fans?

The old coaches try to dampen the pain. Son,
they say, the body has only so many
good throws in its quiver. When the well has
gone dry, the bucket can just haul up dust.

For some a gig as the droll color guy
spinning yarns in the broadcast booth awaits.
It’s a place and a name. But no Old Timers Day
can draw the ones who truly lost it. For them
remembering is too much like twisting
the knife fate left sticking in their hearts.