Old Gold Footprints on the Diamond

We’re softball legends of league play—just ask us, we’ll tell you—

Stories from summers when we still ran well.

Even if we now jog with rust on our frames,

But give us a bat, and we’re back in the game.

We dream of jerseys and memories from decades ago,

Some bellies stretching the buttons just so.

We smack line drives that drift foul,

Then blame it on wind (and our bifocal scowl).

Some stick-on tape is older than most,

And more than a few catchers need help to squat at the post.

We’ve got outfielders tracking slow balls with pride—

Only takes ’em a minute (or two) to act.

A grounder to shortstop . . . a real risky ask.

We’ll bend down tomorrow—today is our task.

And taking an extra base? Not with these knees—

We only take only time.

We wish for the shade, waiting to sip a brew

. . . while cursing the heat wave.

Each inning is slower, each swing a bit late,

But we play like it matters — hey, it’s still great.

We cherish those national laurels . . .

With championship studs from Blizzards to,

River Bats, Lumberjacks to Merchants . . .

Team Minnesota to Masters and Mavericks.

The scoreboard’s a whiteboard, the ump’s half asleep,

Our double plays come in a turn-based leap.

But laughter rings out as we circle the sun —

Old guys still having old fun.

Leaving our footprints . . . for yesterday and tomorrow

(By Pat Thompson, assistance from artificial intelligence)