The Batter Gets in the Game
I stepped up to the plate,
with my old, familiar stance,
thinking my set routine,
would parry the pitcher’s prance.
The first was a curved ball,
curiously spun with such intrigue.
I watched it drift in, then away,
off the plate. A ball!
The next was a fast-ball, right on line.
I swung too early, too locked up in dreams,
Convinced I was right, as ever, this time!
A Strike! Being right on line. It ain't divine!
I saw the third pitch dip out of the hand,
I flinched with doubt, opting out, I folded.
It was a knuckle ball! I bailed too fast —
Missed the moment, let it pass! Strike 2!
A slider sent, brought my memories to the fore,
I thought back to what I'd done before.
When the ball leather smelled so fresh.
Sure enough a Hit, but alas, a Foul.
The fifth came cloaked in abject silence.
No wind, no banter, just hollow air.
I was frozen out, by the silent treatment,
Left waiting, waiting, burning insane.
I swung too late! Phew! Ball 2!
Then came the soft one, slow and low,
a change-down thrown, as pitcher sunk low —
with eyes half-closed, head bowed,
in a sorta 'It's ME Time' trance!
A hit! It soared, the crowd went wild —
A Home run for the inner child!
Now my stance, is more tuned,
more still, more considered.
Reading each pitch as it comes,
not too heartfelt nor willful.
Not naming the pitch, nor predicting it,
just knowing when to wait,
to bend and meld, to get an even break.
Copyright ©
John Anderson
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