In spirit, definitely.
My body, on the 4 train.
Trafficked to 161st.
I have “repped my city”.
I have “put the city on my back”.
I “made my family proud”.
I “put my niggas on”.
I even played the game I mastered, beat, remastered, got indefinitely suspended from, returned to and lost in.
For the crowd.
I may be a free agent soon.
I may owe a lot of money to a lot of people.
I may have sold my soul, in the name of love.
But when the plate’s home, I dig my cleats in and take a stance.
Wherever this swing takes me, I’m runnin’.
If I barely make it to first, there were runners on second and third.
Fuck the shortstop, should second be where I meet the mitt.
Stop waving your fucking arms!
I see you.
If when I make it home you call yourself “waiting for me”, expect the bottom to start it.
“Like... excuse me dawg; pardon these Nikes!”
This could be THE season.
My knees are giving out from decades of being a catcher.
The city I was drafted in AND the city I play for have counted me out.
Yet... I’m at bat.
I will not be represented, the way I am and want to be, by my home turf.
Yet... I can win the game.
This is a LONG offseason.
Failed drug tests.
But when it’s game day...
Yeah. THAT WAY.
My conceit is divine.