Baseball poem

When I breathe,

I smell the oily leather from my glove,

the soft clay on the pitchers mound,

and the dew from the grass.

When I walk,

I imagine the soft grass folding under my spikes,

and stretching in the outfield.

When I think,

I think about throwing,

hitting,

base-stealing.

When I eat,

I see myself eating a hotdog just off the charcoal grill at a game,

hearing the ball smack the mit,

with a loud popping noise,

as the pitch is thrown then caught.

When I talk,

I talk about players,

games I play in,

games I've watched,

how I pitch.

Baseball,

it's my life.