Practice makes perfect

 You stared at that ball
with vicious intent

The look of a master

Who for hours had spent

Honing his skills

Far from the crowd

Where the greatest are made  

Learning the ways and the how’s

Where the real blood is spilt

The sweat it is shed

For the love of the game

Feet they have bled.

Ball after ball

After ball

After ball

The rest all long gone

You ignore their calls

Pursuing your dreams

Until the day it does come

When all of your efforts

shall be rewarded my son.

A lesson in life

Mind over matter

Lesser men would have crumpled

Fallen and shattered

Yet until the last

You gave your all

For the love of the game

You answered the call;

When it mattered most

All those hours alone

You stepped up to the crowd

And onto your throne.

Gone, not forgotten

For those of us cleansed

of devils red

a wry smile appeared

no tears were shed,

a window of hope

for the rest of us souls

who had our hopes dashed

by your precocious hold.

We lined no streets

to witness your passing

or hailed to the chief

bowing out in his glory -

your reign as the king

not a part of our story;

Instead we rejoiced

The king passed on the reins

but has his watch stopped

or does it tick on unhinged?

A new dawn may beckon

fresh is the day

will this now herald

the changing of ways?

Or will we be left

as so often before

outside looking in

left to implore

the if’s and the maybe’s

the ‘what could have been’s’

The great man is gone

still held in esteem.