He was an unseasoned pup,
talented but green,
still not knowing how good he was.
He had spent last summer
on sandlots, the only grass
hovering uncut deep in the outfield.
But now instead of dirt,
he is playing on surfaces
smooth and cleanly cut,
grass manicured with care.
But it doesn't matter to him
for it was still baseball.
He still swung his bat
as free and easy as he did
when he first learned how to
in his parents' backyard,
knocking his father's soft tosses
over the shrubs and bushes
his mother cared for every spring.
But now he hits fastballs
over green fences, catching the eyes
of the old timers watching in the bleachers.
They say he could be special
and sign a big-time contract
if he can keep this us.
But he doesn't care.
To him, it's still a game.
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