We throw the ball, we catch the ball
We hit the ball, we run?
From ages eight to eighty
We still can find it fun.
The aching back, the wobbly knee,
The rubber arm, and squinty eye
Are trifles, and forgotten
When we chase that towering fly.
The batter on the base path
Is heading down to first
And figures on taking second,
Because the fielders are the worst.
But miracle of miracles
And against all geriatric odds,
The center fielder is in place
And calling on the softball Gods.
He reaches high with trusty glove
And feels the hefty pop-
But suddenly shocked and horrified,
He sees that cursed softball drop.
The panicked throw is wild-
The teammate screams are loud-
There are hoots and laughter
From the heartless bleacher crowd.
The runner staggers in to second
Wheezing hard and long
While players on both teams wonder,
What went right, or wrong.
The game goes on until the final out
Whether it be a squeaker or a rout;
And we’ll be back on Monday/Thursday
Just because we really like to play.
So it’s still the same old game
We played when we were young.
Throw the ball, catch the ball,
Hit the ball and run.
Moral: You can’t avoid growing older, but you don’t have to grow up!
Prescott Senior Softball