SOFTBALL DIDN'T MAKE ME SOFT

Dusty cleats by the front door every day. 

Just more week and I get to play.

The start of the season is always the best, 

I've put in more work than any of the rest. 

Blood, sweat, and tears.

Blood for the scraped knees to get better at base running. 

Sweat from the summer tournments spent miles away from home. 

Tears for the wins and losses who have created the athlete in front of you. 

An athlete who desires the touch of leather, the smell of dirt, and the view from home plate. 

Directed by time, drills, and speed, 

This mentor of mine took the lead. 

This poem is about: 
Me
My community

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