The red scoreboard over centerfield
No runs, no hits, no errors
Against a sky just as empty and blue
The outfield grass is perfect
These five weeks after the seasons end
Were enough to heal the bald, dirt scars
Worn in where the fielders always stood.
I can almost hear the sounds of the fifty seasons
The crack and now ping of the bat
The whizzing fastball
Infield chatter: hum babe, hum babe
Some left a lot of their lives here
At night this place will be haunted.