The American Dream
by Molly Boeder
Just a little boy, determined to play ball for the Yankees,
left field, number 27 - after his birth date of course.
Life savings went towards his baseball hat,
religiously, the oversized navy cap crowned his head,
he wore it like a badge of honor.
Doodling pictures of the emerald field, the diamond upon which he would strut,
his home run dance prepared.
Little league coaches bragged about the kid's hit being the size of Babe Ruth's.
Priding himself on the fact that someday, he would break the legend's records.
Summers spent at the park, watching the big boys,
and dying for a chance to swing against those hot shots.
Baseball games second nature to his town, he aspired to thrill with his expertise.
Welcoming ovations as they chanted his name,
wanting only to return the smile that brought light to a darkening world.
Baseball eased neighborhood tensions, families brought together.
Games - a celebration of life's simpler things.
English papers focused on baseball, Frank Thomas, the '83 World Series, the strike,
constantly influenced by the American game.
High school spent breaking records,
captaining his teams, and an M.V.P. four years in a row.
His number 27 creating its own legacy.
Hundreds flocked to watch the boy play.
Kids in awe of him,
his powerful bat, lightning feet, their hero on the field.
College approached, full scholarship awaiting him at Florida State, the destiny of his imagination.
A promising future, he knocked on the door of fame,
but the 'hood's harsh realities, defeated a dream.
Playing with his kid brothers at South Park, a typical Saturday pastime,
standing in the outfield, they anticipated catching his fly balls like falling stars.
Rattling off make believe stats for their star, he bowed graciously to "his" Yankee stadium fans.
But a drive-by shooting stole the unopened gift from above.
A bullet silencing childish summertime laughter, he fell.
The distraught boys held their limp hero like a sacred treasure,
game over.
Yankee hat atop his chest, a brave effort to hide the blood.
Three days later, his fans gathered for a premature burial,
the handsome brown face never to play again.
Goals within his reach, he was soon to grace the green with the best,
a utopia where all of the talented dreamers ended up.
Dreamers like him, loving the game, and living the game.
He put his heart into each swing, throwing life into those he loved,
the climax cut short.
An innocent life, stolen like a base he knew too well,
fast and confident, he'd never been tagged out.
A brilliant soul terminated by another pastime, neglecting the youth, their misdirection landed in his direction,
and a crystal clear dream shattered, instead of the records.
This ballplayer's stats never made it to the history books,
only a page on a police report.