He takes off his cap and wipes again
as he looks around at the man on first
the man on second
The scoreboard reminds him there are
two outs
and the count is two and two
He thinks about wasting a pitch
teasing the batter
making him nibble at a bad one
Then he sets himself on the mound
the heel of one foot
on the rubber
He stares down at the catcher
two fingers, one, three, one
off to the left
He reads the signal sets to pitch
looks at the man on second
the man on first
He tightens the grip on the ball
the feel of two seams gives him
confidence and strength
He hears the cheering, the
rhythmic clapping of fans
wanting a hit, an RBI
His foot kicks the air, his arm drops
then the arm comes over the top
He releases the ball with a slight twist
He finishes with his arm across his body
the glove up ready for action
both feet firmly planted
He can almost hear the ball cut
air as if it were a knife slicing an apple
he thinks Good pitch
The ball slams into the catcher’s mitt
a loud thud, No, he thinks, an explosion
The irresistible meeting the immovable
The batter is still standing there looking
down as the umpire pumps a fist in the air
yells, Stee-rike!
The batter shakes his head, slaps his hand
against the bat, walks away as the pitcher
bangs a fist into his glove, walks back to the dugout