This is a poem of my earliest recollections of playing Baseball in San Francisco's Police Activities League and what I learned.




The early morning fog hovers over wet blades of fresh cut grass, the yellow sun above turns to baseball, the game I love.

That smell of cut grass, takes me back to the past to when the morning dew kicked off little cleats, where the raked infield dirt and crisp white chalk lines meet.
In the end what remains are the shoe impressions left in sand and clay, marked in chalk-mixed dirt of all the tiny running feet in play, where we gathered to compete that day.

We ran to bases, all around the City, in so many places, we played many Teams on fields full of dreams, with so many...