They have brought their gloves along
with the children and wives, girlfriends,
the cooler and blankets, as though
this is how a man tans.
They
are throwing the ball around,
calling a game in their heads,
pretending ease as they backpedal,
squint against the sun, sweat
as though still at work,
carefully indifferent to missed
chances, dropped cans of corn,
sending small apologies in the direction
of overthrows, behaving
as though expertise
were a possession not qualified
by performance.
They are so cocky,
proffering advice to the kids,
girlfriends they permit to play,
rehearse in gasps between catches
their sporting lives, shouting
encouragement to each other,
good-natured epithets that sound
like passwords.
After twenty years
of school, jobs and families,
they still have or lack what it takes,
still, by God, know how
to pound a pocket, throw a ball.