In baseball, it is a mighty thing,
to lay the bat horizontal
one hand gently on the barrel
holding on gingerly with
index finger and thumb
loose but steady, smooth,
behind the trademark so that
when the ball hits the wood
it stops dead, and falls
lifeless to the ground
while you drop the bat like fire
and run as fast as you can
knowing you will be out
but that it doesn’t matter
because you have done your job
and moved the runner over to second
for the sake of the team

Those who do not see
think you cannot hit, that
this was out of desperation
while gentle connoisseurs and
teammates in the dugout
applaud and slap your back
because you have done
what you are supposed to do
giving up yourself
for the greater good,
like time put aside to
listen to your lover,
check in on an old friend
play games with your children
or call on your parents
it isn’t really sacrifice
it’s the beauty of the game