Lingering to Listen

The first frame sounds different than the last
Crowds wave signs, cheer loud and have a blast
Armed with noises, they roar and rant
Quietness and stillness are scant
The man on deck clatters confident and brash
The runner‘s stomp swishes like a puddle splash
There’s a frail silence in the final frame
They’re deaf to it in the beginning of the game
Each player listens carefully to the ump’s undulating call
During the ninth, the decisions come with a hyphenating stall
The hitter straddles the plate like a boater who’s rowing
A plopping bunt slap gets him to where he is going
The bleachers beat and children chide
The opposing pitcher to shake his pride
The wooden weapon whacks, a cracking shatter
Delivering the dashing and darting batter
A clunking collision in the early inning
Turns into a breathless gasp that hinges on winning
Plushy grass slows the ball to a whimper
Only in the end does it show its simper
The outfield plays tricks with the fielder’s glove
Taking the leather mitt and giving a shove
He slips as his feet give way to the ground
All that’s left is a simultaneous stunned sound
Their once emotional, energetic chimes
Are now carbon copies of muted mimes
Frozen faces look down as they walk away
Helmets hobble at the end of play
“You win some, you lose some,” says the coach with concern
Adjacent in the dugout, painful sobs of those who yearn
The unheard heartbreaking throbs are all they remember
It carries with them through and beyond December