The Catcher Poem by Saint Eule

He could have been a pitcher, if only he would ask.
But he played the catcher, the pads and ugly mask.
All the wild pitches that were thrown his way.
The bruises, busted knees on a hot summers day.

He was quite a batter and usually got on base.
His legs sore from all the balls that he would chase.
I felt a little guilty for making him put on the mit.
Anyone other little league player would had surely quit.

When you became a man, what made it worth it all.
You always helped a friend and catch them when they fall.
Now I probably never told you how much you meant to me.
You could have been the pitcher, but God's catcher you would be.

Thank you, my son.