When I compare myself
To a ball player
Even the one who sits
At the far end of the bench
The twenty-fifth man, making
A million bucks, minimum
Just to sit there and perhaps
warm up
The relief pitcher, who makes
twenty mil
I growl that all he does
Is play a game
While I, who did not make a
million
Were all my paychecks
From all my years, added
Up and given an inflationary
fart
I say that I at least did
Worthwhile stuff
Teaching people
To be good
While this multi-millionaire
Just plays a game
Then I remember
That joy is the end of life
Ballplayers bring joy
And passion and exultation
And memories, yes, don’t
forget
Memories, for joy goes long
The homer, the perfect game
The headfirst slide, the broken
record
Ah, yes, records, the first
left-handed man
From Altoona to run from
first to third
While reading Milton [Not
Berle; the other one]
And eating a ham sandwich
I wonder if anyone who heard
me
Preach was ever joyful
Or ever remembered to be good
Then I think perhaps I was
overpaid.
John Robert McFarland
No, I’m not breaking my vow
to write no more forever. I scratched this out ten years ago.
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