The tall drink of water stood on the mound,
looking as though his cap were grazing the
egg yolk sun. It was the dessert part of the
season, and, with two outs and the sky a crispy
blue, with runners on all three bases, tension
oozing all over the place in this final game for
first place – – – and standing at the plate like a
string bean, in the bottom of the ninth, with
his team losing but really needing this game,
was a drooling rookie, eager to show that
he could cut the mustard in the Big Show.
The pitcher threw him a pea, which whizzed by
the hitter’s hungry eyes, for a strike. That pitch
was followed by a meatball, but the hot dog
batter was too eager, and he swung too early,
missing for strike two. The old Pro hurler then
jammed the batter with some cheese, but
the batsman didn’t fall for it, so the count became
one and two – – – and the rook could taste a
rib-eye about to come his way . . . maybe even
the coveted grand salami! He was desperate
to smash a ‘tater – – – but he hit a can of corn
to the center fielder for the final out. It was
as clear as chicken broth that the batter would
wear the uniform for a cup of coffee, and would
then be eating those less than scrumptious
Minor meals. Meanwhile, the losing manager
would be left to deal with his painful indigestion.
THE POETRY OF THE GAME