Since this decade of zeroes began
There has been something special to watch
In the warm heart of Sunday afternoons
When the game and the season are on
Checking to see if a young man in red
Wearing reserve as his elegance
Is striding ahead on the multiple shades
Of closely-mown green grass again
The ballet formed of angles and planes
The rhythm he makes of steel and wood
In a moment’s blur, the elements cohere
Like a wicked cool Miles Davis groove
With stride and glare, self-conscious looks
Of appraisal, he adjusts his glove
One man calls attention in the crush
Compels with mathematical moves
It would be just a game and not mean a thing
Except that his smile and aura can seem
As broad as the wheatfields of Van Gogh
And bright as the tigers of Rousseau.
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