Lord, don’t let me end up like this.
I was nineteen. Smokestacks coughing black
into Ohio skies, shadows falling
on the rock-strewn diamond
where we played like smoky ghosts.
Men trudged past, sooty and beaten down.
Class A ball in the Yankee chain.
Buses jolting through the night.
Days in blazing sun.
Motels reeking of mildew.
New York, Chicago, San Francisco—
a million miles away from these endless rides
to nowhere.
Is this all there is?
***
I prayed again: Let me make it.
Let me reach the show.
Let the bright lights shine on me.
Some laughed when I prayed out loud,
in a bitter, hungry voice.
But one who didn’t—a battered catcher
with taped-up fingers—admonished me:
You pray wrong. Don’t pray for it.
Pray for strength to make it on your own.
But I didn’t listen.
I just prayed harder.
Let me play forever under those bright lights.
Let the crowd roar.
Let me never leave the field.
***
Then: the call.
You’re going up.
Cheers, lights, and then the big town.
No more buses, no more endless rides.
Home field green—
—but painted green.
Sky of glass, smudged with soot
and beer-stained rings.
Flashing lights instead of stars,
glares and clanging bells instead of crowds.
A constant throb behind my eyes.
I heard the crack of a bat
and a steel arm swung.
Field lights flickered, buzzing like insects.
The infield shimmered, the lines bending,
and the roar of the crowd became
a mechanical hum.
Steady and cold.
***
This is the majors.
This is what I prayed for.
I cannot move.
A streetlamp bleeds light
through dirt-smudged glass.
Beside me, the center fielder—
stiff as a mannequin.
His eyes roll toward mine,
but that’s all the motion either of us has.
We prayed wrong, he whispered.
Both of us.
A drunk stumbles in, jingling coins,
feeds one in a slot.
Metal clinks, gears shudder,
and the whole machine trembles alive.
A scoreboard flashes:
HOME. VISITORS.
Crescent Pinball Machines, New York, N.Y.
***
The ball rockets loose,
clattering off bumpers.
Bells hammer. Sparks fly
with every collision.
Another ball launches.
The game that never ends.
The lights always shining.
The crowd always roaring—
mechanically, endlessly.
The center fielder whispers,
voice like metal scraping:
We got the call. We made it.
Yes, I answer.
I try to raise my hand,
but the machine holds it fast.
The ball rebounds, flippers snap,
and we dive again—
puppets forced into motion
forever.
***
I remember all:
smokestacks, buses,
diamonds that smelled of soot
and hope.
Three wishes, three prayers, three strikes.
I prayed to play forever under bright lights.
I prayed the game would never end.
I prayed to make it to New York.
Be careful what you pray for.
The drunk curses, slams the buttons.
Another coin drops.
Another inning begins.
And I know the truth:
I got exactly what I asked for.
The lights shine on me.
The crowd roars.
I play forever.
The game that never ends.
The flippers snap.
The lights flash.
Another inning begins,
and another,
and another.
***
Dale Scherfling writes with a photographer’s patience, catching the small, human tremors most people walk past. His poems have appeared in The San Diego Poetry Annual, The Monterey Poetry Review, Mangrove Review, and Chiron Review, among others. A longtime newspaperman and retired Navy journalist, he has spent a lifetime listening to the world closely—its shadows, its light, and the stories that flicker between them. He teaches photojournalism, photography, and music, and continues to chase the moments that refuse to stand still.
