It was in an empty lot Ringed by elms and fir and honeysuckle. Bill Corson was pitching in his buckskin jacket, Chuck Keller, fat even as a boy, was on first, His t-shirt riding up over his gut, Ron O'Neill, Jim, Dennis, were talking it up In the field, a blue sky above them Tipped with cirrus. And there I was, Just off the plane and plopped in the middle Of Williamsport, Pa. and a neighborhood game, Unnatural and without any moves, My notions of baseball and America Growing fuzzier each time I whiffed. So it was not impossible that I, Banished to the outfield and daydreaming Of water, or a hotel in the mountains, Would suddenly find myself in the path Of a ball stung by Joe Barone. I watched it closing in Clean and untouched, transfixed By its easy arc before it hit My forehead with a thud. I fell back, Dazed, clutching my brow, Groaning, "Oh my shin, oh my shin," And everybody peeled away from me And dropped from laughter, and there we were, All of us writhing on the ground for one reason Or another. Someone said "shin" again, There was a wild stamping of hands on the ground, A kicking of feet, and the fit Of laughter overtook me too, And that was important, as important As Joe Barone asking me how I was Through his tears, picking me up And dusting me off with hands like swatters, And though my head felt heavy, I played on till dusk Missing flies and pop-ups and grounders And calling out in desperation things like "Yours" and "take it," but doing all right, Tugging at my cap in just the right way, Crouching low, my feet set, "Hum baby" sweetly on my lips.