A Slow Pitch

In the dirt of the diamond, my son’s eyes Burn below the rim of his red hat And he pulls his hand back, looks at the score yet again, digs his small toe in as his chest rises. From my place in the stands Every muscle has become tense And my heart is pounding in my chest As he draws his arm back and then forward Releasing his breath and the tiny spinning ball, A wild pitch bouncing off the wire fence. And I finally exhale, wonder if he knows I am throwing with him and that was my wild pitch because I forgot to breath when we released the ball And I was trying to throw it slow. And I should just let him throw the ball Because I am not a good pitcher Because how can I possibly throw with him When he is a lefty and I am a right. But all of me grows tense, as he has the ball yet again, And then we are winding up again Because I cannot let go Because his dreams are now my dreams Because I don’t know how to love him Any other way. So I will wear his little hat and Must remember to exhale when we release the ball. And I can play with him for a few more years So we wind up, and we pitch, and that fast ball down the middle, It wasn’t even trying to be avoided, And so I know he threw that one Because he is ready for the fast ball And I would prefer we pitch it slow, Just for a little while longer. Long enough for him to know I am out there with him. Long enough for me to learn how to let a fast ball fly.