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.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem