The hand that wore the glove,
that caught the ball,
that won the game.
By Ian Hochberg
My errors were many,
The sense of it all was none.
What drew me to Little League
was maybe the uniform,
or Frank, the nice classmate of mine who was pitcher.
They banished me to right field
where I was out of the way.
The league World Series final.
My last Little League game.
A tree stump of a baseball bully
expected an easy home run,
knowing I wouldn’t catch his high fly.
He drove that ball skyward.
And when he did, all my fear flew with it
And that moment was all there was.
The ball arced high and right to me.
I got underneath it, held my glove in readiness
and it homed right in and stayed there.
Delirium ignited the field with ecstatic cheers
from my disbelieving teammates.
The next batter was convinced I couldn’t do it again.
He was wrong. And he was out, too.
That was the last time anyone tried to make a fool out of me that day.
The final glory came at the end of the game.
My last at bat.
Every time before meant a walk or strike out.
For the first time, my bat touched the ball.
It went foul, but was a home run to me.
I was given the game ball that day and I helped us win.
Imagine a transforming lift when anything is possible,
there is nothing to lose and everything to gain