First came the reports

from Spring Training

games in Florida.

Waiting for the bus

on a snow covered

drive, a boyhood

fantasy indeed,  I worried

that the Yanks first month

would be postponed,

but, gradually, the land

thawed and the red alcohol

in thermometers finally

made it into the low fifties,

and then the girls in school

began to molt, sloughing off

thick coats and bulky sweaters.

Suddenly, my fellow males

and I noticed the reappearance 

of white flesh and felt the flash

of our young blood pulsing,

brought to a boil by the return

of female thighs in shorts

or the first sighting of a bra strap

migrating down a slim bicep

out from the shoulder

of a sleeveless shirt.

By the time opening day

rolled around, we needed

a diversion from life’s mysteries

and our youthful ineptness

that kept us standing

on life’s on-deck circle—

a mile way from first base.

And so we rooted hard

for the teams of our choice,

too young yet to play

the real games of Spring.