David Denton

Money didn't move him; neither did fame.
The scout was working hard to find a why 
To motivate this giant of a man
To trade in bales of hay for balls and bat.
For reasons we may never know, it worked.
“I'd like,” he said, “to try my hand at that.”
And so he did, for one game (or a part).
Three times up, three pitches seen, three balls hit
Hard—you could hear them whistle through the wind.
But then, that fourth at-bat he up and quit,
Walked straight off the field without looking back.
He never said a word to anyone
Explaining what it was that changed his mind
And made him suddenly decide, “I’m done”
I found him in his field later that day,
In working pants and shirt he'd sweated through.
No words passed between us for a while
As in that field a crop of silence grew.
“I guess I like the game all right,” he said,
When finally he took a break from hay.
“And I could hit that ball, no problem there,
And I'd be glad to trade in work for play.
But that last ball went buzzing past my face
And scared me so I near forgot my name.
Maybe I'm a coward, I'll let you decide,
But I'll not lose my head for any game.”
That's all he said; we never spoke again
Of baseball games, or bats and balls, or fear.
We leave the past behind us once it's gone—
That's always been the way we do it here.