Back in high school, my friends CC, DR, and I went to a little league baseball field near our house to hit balls and play catch. On this particular day, there were several families around the field spending the day enjoying the sun. I was playing in the outfield to catch the balls, and the first hit from CC's bat went bouncing into left field, narrowly missing a family having a picnic. They had a young daughter and a small baby on the blanket with them. I instantly had a bad feeling about this, but I didn't say anything, and CC kept hitting.
The next ball missed my outstretched glove, bounced once, and hit the baby square in the back of the head. The father picked him up and rushed him to the hospital. Ultimately, the baby checked out okay, but the wait between that moment and the phone call confirming the outcome inspired the following poem.
The sun's out, but it's still a black day.
As we all sat there in silence,
No one wanted to be him, not even him.
We don't even think of the consequences;
We just relive the event in slow motion.
It's thing like these that can make a child out of a man;
That can make you cry; that can make you scared.
Only this time there's no one there to protect you,
No one there to lean on.
We are helpless; all we can do is wait.
Soon the verdict will come,
The wait is the true torture.
The game ends never to be played again
Because no one feels like playing anymore.
