There is nothing in all the world Like hitting a baseball Squarely Too old to play I sit in the stands Dodger Stadium And punch too hard a plastic beach ball floating by Like a knuckleball It flies, floats, drops, rises Then out it goes over the field Umpire halts the game Points to me Shortstop leaps and snags the stupid plastic thing Thinking the ball is mine, ushers are headed my way Fan yells, You Knucklehead Ushers hand me the ball to deflate and put away Like in film noir, a chic woman in chic sunglasses Sits by me Lucky, this empty seat Then again, noir films, maybe not so lucky I guess her age, half my years plus seven years Exactly the French formula for matching aged males With femme fatales with bare shoulders Voices and smarts like Stanwyck’s. At the park I’m in the dark whether she’s had plastic surgery Cannot tell her age Ah, title of this my newest life episode: Plastic Can Be Deadly She asks for her beach ball back. I give it back and she holds it sweetly like it’s a baby Out the corner of my eye I see tears in hers Watch as she deftly deflates the large plastic ball Packs it neatly in her Newport Beach bag The game tied and headed for extra innings When it’s over I’ll walk her to her Jaguar Should this lovely woman ask me to follow her home Or asks to follow me I’ll say . . . no Too shy, too sly, too savvy for pitch outs (Hell, I’m an old catcher) No percentage hitting a fastball squarely with her Rather wait for your pitch (Ted Williams was right) Be slow like a knuckleball, float and fly, and dip I may see her again But if nothing else, for talk and tea . . . at three . . . pm: Daylight can save you