In Gridiron’s field, ‘neath sky so vast,
A kickball game was held so fast.
Eleven players, faces bold and bright,
Gathered there in the dawning light.
Chum Bucket’s laugh, a jolly sound,
Echoed wide, all around the ground.
Polly, swift, with a limber stride,
Pulled up lame, his hamstring tied.
EF Hutton spoke, and all would hush,
While Handshake’s boot brought a gentle crush.
Tater argued, loud and long,
His words, like thunder, fierce and strong.
Pigskin’s kick flew like a dart,
Whitesnake moved with a slithering art.
Fireman Ed, with a booming cheer,
Rallied all who gathered near.
Oyster, quiet, with a pensive gaze,
Lighthouse, bright, through the morning haze.
And Johnsonville, both player and ref,
Made calls so fair, left no one bereft.
Eight innings played in competitive zeal,
Each call and kick, a spinning wheel.
Though Johnsonville was just and true,
Discontent in rival hearts grew.
For in this game, ‘neath twilight’s dome,
The kickball field was more than home.
It was a place where spirits soared,
Where every run and shout was scored.
Yet, amidst the playful fray,
Nature’s hand would gently sway.
Teaching that beyond each score,
Lies life’s game, with so much more.
Through laughter, strife, and hamstrings torn,
In the field where joy was born,
The kickball game at Gridiron’s end,
Left memories, like true friends’ words, to tend.
