Weekday July, up with the sun
Out the door on Kellogg’s fuel
Pedaling madly on his Schwinn bike
To attend to the sandlot ritual
At the end of Stanford Drive
Just at the corner of Wells
Behind a weather-beaten barn
Was the place magic seemed to dwell
They’d gather with hand-me-down gloves
Keith brought the aluminum bat
Someone lost their best leather ball
Adam had a tennis ball for that
The field pitched gently uphill
First base was a sparse maple tree
Second and third a spare glove and a can
Home plate, a warped frisbee
“Batter up!” Bobby called from the mound
Joey on first, Adam at the plate
Keith and Steven covered the field
But the ground ball was fielded too late
With Joey on second and Adam on first
They were fresh out of players to play
But the sandlot magic summoned
Ghost runners to cover bases all day
The game rolled on for hours on end
While summer drifted slowly away
It scarcely mattered who won or lost
They never thought to keep score anyway
Sunset lingered. Lunch forgotten
Streetlights granted one reprieve.
The boys of summer played on
Refusing every call to leave.
Eventually the game would be called
Years and miles dissolved the pastime
But those days at the sandlot remind us
That we’re only young for a limited time.
The Lords of Stanford Drive grew older
Yet honored every childhood word
Because no matter what life threw at them
They’d never leave a ghost man on third.
Mannino Acid 