They had come here to see
The last game he would be
In the uniform he wore so proud

He had played twenty years
Through the boos and the cheers
With a thirst, and a love for the game

He would send them away
Filled with awe and dismay
They could see what had earned him his fame

When he’d step to the plate
How his chest would inflate
With the crowd like the wind at his back

He knew what to do
With whatever they threw
When to take, when to give it a whack

He would focus his eyes
His selection was wise
There was steel in his arms when he swung

They were drawn to this place
To watch his style and grace
When they rose it was his praise was sung

This was his church, it’s true
And you sat is his pew
When you came out to watch this man play

He was surely to blame
This was more than a game
What spit had been mixed with his clay?

He had played 20 years
And had earned every cheer
In his mind he still had his youth

But the young hurlers knew
By the pitches they threw
That his body was feeling the truth

Here he’d dove for a ball
There he’d run in the wall
He’d been pitched at, he’d slid hard, he’d run

When his legs were too sore
When his ligaments tore
Still he played, till the season was done

Now he stood at the plate
Contemplating his fate
As the pitcher stood staring him down

“Don’t worry old bum”
Boldly these words had come
From the catcher, who spat on the ground

“It isn’t my call
But he’ll throw you four balls
That’s the way that they want it today.

You are big in this town
But I think you’re a clown
It’s a disgrace they still let you play”

As he walked down to first
He remembered the thirst
That he always had had for this game

Although out of respect
A walk didn’t reflect
Why they’d come here to honor his name

But he’d no time to stew
The next drive went on through
To the wall and he started to run

As past second he ran
He caught sight of the man
Out in center, “man he’s got a gun”

But he bobbled the ball
Played it bad off the wall
And he’d been here often before

He would challenge the play
And he’d make that man pay
If they waved him on in he would score

Once he ran like the wind
Now the legs would not bend
Still he gave it the best that he had

When he rounded third base
You could see in his face
The fervor he had as a lad

As the coach waves him in
He’s urged on by the din
But too late he knows with a gasp

With his spirit strong
He’d excited the throng
But his reach had exceeded his grasp

These last months that he’d spent
On the bench to repent
For his failings brought on by his age

Had prepared him to fail
Striving to no avail
But his heart was igniting a rage

He had not played this long
To have this his swan song
To be mocked by that boy at the plate

They were blocking him wide
Trying to force a slide
Just in case that the ball got there late

They knew with his knee
It’s the wrong place to be
He would have to reach back with his hand

The tag, they were sure
The out would insure
His hourglass was now out of sand

The catcher reached out
For the ball as a shout
From the crowd said they knew he was done

He’d given his best
But he’d failed this last test
He would never deliver this run

He could feel the knee give
And his reason to live
Would be gone when the ump made his call

It was anguish he felt
As hope started to melt
When he heard the loud ‘pop’ of the ball

There guarding the plate
Like St. Peter’s gate
Stood the catcher a sneer on his face

“Old man you’ve had your day
Now it’s your time to pay
You’re too old to handle the pace”

He could not hear the crowd
For his heart beat too loud
As for one final slide he prepared

The catcher bent down
His plight to compound
The ump stooped to see how he fared

He’d be stripped of his pride
At the end of this slide
His career would end in defeat

With the last of his strength
He extended full length
And his dive tore his foe from his feet

The crowd stood to a man
Now one unified fan
And their roar his salvation pronounced

The umps arms spread wide
The catcher lay on his side
And grabbed for the ball as it bounced

Slowly he rose
There was blood on his nose
And the pain in his knee was intense

He should have been proud
As he waved to the crowd
His legacy now was immense

But the man simply turned
To the catcher who’d spurned
This ancient, decrepit old man

For a moment he gazed
At the hand that was raised
With their shake they said all a man can

His career now was through
To this game he’d been true
For his sins he’d atoned here today

They were still in their seats
In reverence of this feat
By the man they had come to watch play

His teammates just stood
For they felt that they should
Let him walk all alone from the field

This game takes its toll
Here he’d given his soul
His redemption, refusing to yield

Our small mountain town was nestled in a valley along the banks of a picturesque stream. Starting high in the mountains, small tributaries would spring from the earth and make their way to the valley floor, joining forces to form the Batavia Kill. Not only was this a source of water for the Big Apple, just a couple hours downstream, but it also served as the perfect playground for the neighborhood kids. Much like the mighty Mississippi was the perfect backdrop for the adventures of Mark Twain’s Tom Sawyer, the Batavia Kill was the birthplace of many of the adventures of childhood, but probably the most anticipated adventure each year, was the first day of trout season.

With a rocky creek bed, a path that meanders through the valley at times cutting deep in the banks that contain it, and pools both shallow and deep, a native brook trout would be hard pressed to find a more perfect habitat…and we knew that. So, as March started to come to a close, the excitement for April first, trout season’s opening day, grew with each passing day.

Planning started early. First was the matter of gear. Yes, my trusty Zebco 202 was propped up in the corner of the garage, exactly where I had set it the October prior. But what about hook, line, and sinker…was I properly equipped? The bait of choice was the trusty night crawler or garden worm; however, winter’s deep freeze often did not relent in time to go that route, and lures often were the only option. Next on the list of things to decide on was the location…and there were several to choose from. Where would we head opening day? Would it be the catfish hole, named for that one and only catfish ever caught in the slow moving current beneath the damp bank of a neighboring cornfield. Maybe we should go to the stumps, or the spillway, or even Davis’ rock. All fine choices, providing equal opportunity to catch that perfect spring Brook Trout, if Grandpa or Uncle Lem did not beat us to it.

The final detail was just down to opening day logistics. A lot of years have passed since those days back in the mountains, but I don’t remember an opening day that ever fell on a weekend…it had to, but all my memories of this day involved a school bus ride to school, a long day of anticipation, a school bus ride home that felt like it took an eternity, and a mad sprint to get our fishing gear so we could hit the stream before daylight made an early exit. We’d ride our bikes down to Willy’s barn, just to ditch them and head upstream by foot to get to our chosen fishing hole.

Daylight is often scarce in the early spring, and even more scarce in the valley, as the sun would hide away behind the mountains long before it officially set for the evening. We’d stretch every minute out of it that we could. Cast after cast…proclaiming the news of every nibble, both real and imagined, and we’d all secretly hope to be the first one to catch a trout that season. It didn’t matter if the air was cold or even if the snow was still falling. It didn’t even matter if we caught a fish that day. This was spring in the mountains, the opening day of trout season, the moment we’d been waiting for to officially kick off the next season of longer days and warmer afternoons. A more perfect moment could not be created.

I imagine we all have our mental images of what heaven looks like…but I think there is a corner in heaven where there runs a small mountain creek, and by that creek are two boys, fishing poles in hand, standing on a bank wearing winter boots and unzipped sweatshirts, watching with anticipation as their fishing line floats down stream, waiting for the moment when they feel a tug…and their line drifts no more.