Snug spring dusk. Players hustle greenly
across warmed grass, balls plashing infield,
confetti falling, false plum blossoms.
Easy out in plain outfield, long armed
lob. Bang of whisked bat. Runner heels bag,
rests at two, fair, perfect diamond view.
Call strike three. Up from his robot squat,
knob catcher under rule huge empire
leans away and lanky batter sulks.
Twisting bat tulip pitcher, swollen
cheeks sun flowered, peers down math model,
algorithmically base template.
Reality catcher’s secret sign,
two and two make three in the slanted
sunbeam most lumbered cat in ball world.
Drops for short nap in dugout dark brew:
shadows, spat seeds, bubblegum, oiled gloves,
olive green browns, seasonal farm tans.
In the stands, bums, basic blue collars,
salt peanuts and choice beers, high above
button down box seats where line the fouls.
Blowy the crowd sings, “Euripides!,”
rising in unison how still rushed
crouched outfielder backing to close fence.
Coiled for spiraling ball with odd red
markings. Where do you want to begin,
at the front of the pitch, or the end?
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The Coming of the Toads 
I like the imagery in this. Even though I have never seen a baseball game I can imagine it. The crowds in the stands anyway :)
Well, baseball is like writing. For one thing, rule bound, and where there are no rules, we seem to make up our own. Then again, in the sandlot or backyard or out in the street, a ballgame can be made up of almost anything, something to hit and something to hit with. Street ball is a great ball game, a pastime here, ergo the amateur writing status at the Toads (like ballgames in the street), and if it’s raining, you can go indoors and shoot caroms, which is to billiards what street ball is to baseball. Thanks for reading and commenting, Jane.
A lovely write
Thanks for reading and comment, Shabeeh.
I haven’t got a clue about baseball, but the poem out it rolls interestingly from the tongue.
So where’s the little star hidden?
The grass is warmed, jumpstarted, in early spring, so it’s ready for opening day.