DINK!

There’s a cursed sound across this land,

a cursed sound held in the hands,

by young and old who play this game,

by young and old who forsake its name.

A sound that insults the grass,

the baselines, fields, bleachers and stands.

A sound that is shallow and weak of spirt,

a sound that’s hollow by those that use it.

DINK... of metal, not wood is due,

imposter to the art of swat we knew.

Imposter to the art of bunt and hit,

imposter to spikes and even mitt.

Of all that lives in this game,

wether amateur or pro of fame.

It’s a ball, glove and forever grass,

with a wooden bats that gives us class.

Its golden grain, its tapered neck,

its bulging sweet spot that demands respect.

But not just anyone can swing this jewel,

this length of wood that makes men into fools.

No, it takes practice to use this right,

wether under sun or under lights.   

No forgiving surface of metal and paint,

or fancy name can help even a saint.

You must be true to your craft today

if swinging wood, not metal grey.

So make it easy on yourself and say,

DINK .. is the sound we’ll hear all day.

By those who will never know, and never say.

This game is a craft that takes time to learn,

to practice and hone, and skills to yearn.

An apprentice of this skillful art,

of swinging wood - that sets you apart.

And those that’ll use the metal shaft,

of aluminum, composites, with little class.