Twenty bats and a glove in a bin,
Basement damp, dreams tucked in.
Years slipped by, coated in dust,
the memories held will never rust.

Fields in the morning, boxes at night,
Dust on his shoes, stars in his sight.
Wins and losses, laughter and blows,
Strikeouts and hits—the life that he chose.

The crack of the bat, the roar of a cheer,
Summers spun endless, year after year.
Carried in haste by a boy full of dreams,
Feet barely touching the ground, it seems.

A boy in a hurry, a boy in love,
Carrying seasons he's still thinking of.
He once gripped those bats with a fearless hand,
Chasing bright summers too fierce to withstand.

The glove bore the sweat of a thousand dreams,
Stitched with the laughter of childhood schemes
He built character there, swing after swing,
Through strikeouts and stumbles and every small thing.

The leather grew supple, the wood wore thin,
But iron was carved in the marrow of skin.
The last catch made, the last shout loud,
The last walk home beneath stars, proud.

The last touch of leather, the breath of a play,
The last walk-off on a hot summer day.
A breath of old leather, a last field of light,
The young man walking away in the night.

The glove now rests, the bats feel strange,
But somewhere inside, the boy still remains.
In the hollow of leather, the crack of old wood,
Still breathes the boy who gave all that he could.

The last dusty swing, the last thunderous cheer,
Still guide each step through the coming years.
The boy who once ran is not left behind—
He’s stitched in the heart, in the soul, in the spine.

Now he stands, a man, in the echoing hall,
Where the bats still murmur, where the gloves still call.
Their cracked old leather, their splintered wood,
Bear the story of all that he withstood.

Now the bats sleep, the glove grows cold,
Whispering stories that won’t be retold.
The last dusty glove, the last shiver of ball,
The last fading footsteps beyond the outfall.

Silent they stand—this witness, this shrine,
Echoes of seasons left frozen in time.
The last glove touched, the last ball tossed,
The last field crossed, but nothing is lost.

The last swing faded, but never the feel,
The last catch vanished, but not what was real.
In marrow, in memory, in each measured pace,
He carries the diamond, its dust and its grace.

Originally written: 3/20/2024- 4/27/2025