The Old Coach
Swen Nater

The old coach stood outside the chain-linked fence,
With the Little League game in his view.
The field looked the same
As when he taught the game.
Just the names and the faces were new.

As he looked at the field and the players in place,
A vision took over his sight.
Each Little League lad
Grew the age of a dad,
Complete with the beard and the height.

The pitcher, an artist, envisioned his work
On a canvas awaiting and bare.
His stroke on the ball
Made it spin and then fall
When it curved and it carved through the air. 

The catcher, a general, positioned in place,
Was leading the rest of the pack.
On his signal and sign,
They joined to combine,
With a quick and successful attack.

The shortstop, a surgeon, whose quickness and skill,
When it seemed like death cast the fate,
On the double, he caught,
What the grave almost got,
And threw lifelessness out at the plate. 

The outfield consisted of no lesser men:
Three statesmen, with not one reproach.
On third was a preacher,
And on second, a teacher,
And on first was a Little League coach. 

The old coach stood outside the chain-linked fence,
With his heart now remorsefully breaking.
If he’d only known
What the vision had shown;
His players were men in the making.