Making the Pitch

First of all, a confession: I was not a pitcher.

Oh, I may have tossed a softball in the general direction of a batter a few times ... in a school playground game or two ... but, even in those games, I was usually somewhere deep in the outfield, keeping company with the gnats, just standing around, watching the slowly unfolding action, which seemed miles away.

Then there was a summer I spent much of the time "pitching" a tennis ball against the side of the garage (good practice toward the day when I might become a real pitcher ... and quite practical, because I had nobody to catch my pitches and toss the ball back to me).

But I wasn't a pitcher. Never was. Never will be.

Still, that didn't keep me from dreaming ... or daydreaming, as in this poem. Now that I have, for all practical purposes, given the secret of the poem away ... sorry about that ... here it is:

MAKING THE PITCH

I finger the ball, toe the rubber,

stretch and unleash my very

best pitch, watch it zooming

and dancing toward that pop

like a sudden shot against

the glove, watch the batter

standing, stunned, hear

the crowd's roar welling up,

filling the stadium, the buzz

of a fly nearby, the gentle

tinkling of ice, the hammock

swaying ever so gently.

© 2000

(originally published in Capper's)

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Today's word: swaying