Sandlot Memories

I grew up on vacant lots in the little desert town of Buckeye, Arizona; those bare patches of ground were the places I smiled and laughed the most. We had no boundaries as such, except the daylight; when night came calling, we reluctantly left the game of the day and headed for home. (I don’t think we broke any windows.)

A Game Forgot


sandlot baseballSummer day, schoolwork forgotten

Air filled with mindless chatter

Pitcher glares toward home plate

Fielders shout, hey batter hey batter


Ball speeds to the redheaded batter

Louisville Slugger in his grip

Gonna knock that pill outta sight

Trot the bases and give cap a tip


Crack of bat as swing connects

Ball soars high in the air

Cover flutters to the infield

The players, horrified, stare


The sphere unravels as it flies

Crushed by the mighty blow

Over the fence then crashes loud

Through Old Man Wilson’s window


Mr. Wilson looks over his fence

At the quiet…. and empty sandlot

Remnants of a baseball in his hand

Summer day, a game forgot


Copyright © 1998 C. Mashburn

This is one of my older poems, but one of my favorites.

NOTE! This poem inspired a sequel! —>Where Dreams Were Dreamed.

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