It looks easy from a distance, easy and lazy, even, until you stand up to the plate and see the fastball sailing inside, an inch from your chin, or circle in the outfield straining to bet a bead on a small black dot a city block or more high, in a dark star that could fall on your head like a leaden meteor. The grass, the dirt, the deadly hops between your feet and the overeager clove: football can be learned, and basketball finessed, but there is no hiding from baseball the fact that some are chosen and some are not--those whose mitts feel too left-handed, who are scared at third base of the pulled line drive, and at first base are scared of the shortstop's wild throw that stretches you like a gutted deer. There is nowhere to hide when the ball's spotlight swivels your way, and the chatter around you falls still, and the mothers on the sidelines, your own among them, hold their breaths, and you whiff on a terrible pitch or in the infield achieve something with the ball so ridiculous you blush for years. It's easy to do. Baseball was invented in America, where beneath the good cheer and the sly jazz the chance of failure is everybody's right, beginning with baseball. __________________________________________________________ The prose-poem above, titled "Baseball," was written by John Updike [1932 - 2009]. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do. SBE, 5/11/15 ----- The above email combines two of Stephens's loves: poetry and baseball. Jason