thousands played midget baseball here, and slo-pitch ball, too.
2 sometimes 3 games a day.
they are gone now.
on moonless nights, i have come here with a can of malt and an ancient ball held tightly, and just watch from behind home plate.
maybe i'll stand in the outfield, looking for a fly ball, take my place at first in the still bare spot at first base, or futilely try to snap off one last old left handed curve ball.
it's strange what one can see and hear in the air on a hot summer night.
then i head for home, always looking over my shoulder.
collectively, we players have left our mark. that's hard to do in a world that can't wait to cover them up.
the weeds from home plate to first base are noticeably shorter, and one can see the pitchers mound.
here the world is going green and i will soon be dust. just strew my ashes around first base at tappan field.
the ballad of the sad young men