The Sandlot sat empty for years,
a result of Kommunen's fears
that a band apart
who are pure of heart
might make a diamond of blood, sweat, and tears.
Nails and screws got a beatdown
on wood hauled out of Freetown
to give us the means
to build dugout screens
protecting many a pronoun.
Hoisting handball nets high onto poles
we'd cemented in one-meter holes,
our backstop looked good,
and did what it could
to contain our precious yellow balls.
The bases, rubber, and home-plate
were nearly delivered too late,
but in the final hour
through a will to power
the Achievers affirmed their fate:
"The home opener shall be played!"
The delivery man thus obeyed,
and so did the weather
so we could flash the leather
and take pride in the field we'd made.
Spray-painted foul lines soaked into the sand
while base spikes bent under hammering hand.
Home-plate pounded in place
and the mound for our ace.
The Achievers prepared to beat the band.
But in the flash that proceeded
in the blink of an eye
the Achievers had conceded
and the game just flew by.
Not one of us recalls the how, why, and what
but after 5 innings we'd been kicked in the butt.
Fuck that mercy rule!
Let's play 7, you fool!
No one paid heed to our cries from the gut.
And on that homemade Sandlot field of dreams
where fools and eccentrics played out their schemes,
the cold nordic wind
on which our hopes were pinned
Bit, stung, and froze this most joyous of teams.
But special lady friends came to our aid
grilling dogs, buying beers; surprised they'd stayed.
On the field of the Clover
our troubles were over,
leaving hope that the dudes might even get laid.