t’s not easy to hide at the end if the bench
On the margin of the dugout, a chameleon
Blending into the background, hardly noticed,
Stuck below the Mendoza Line
Far too long, his confidence evaporating
Game after dreadful game.
He feels the crunching pressure,
Hears the condemnation of the fans,
When he does have one of the few opportunities
To remind his mates of the promise he once showed.
He’s out of options and feels the sharpness
Of the cutting blade almost eagerly approaching.
And then his second baseman and right fielder clash and crash
Going for a dying fish of a pop up
And he is called to take the field
As the second baseman is carried off,
Groaning and suffering from double vision.
And then, at bat, he gets what they call a seeing eye single,
Followed eight outs later by a swinging bunt…
And just like that he’s a hero. The blade is gone,
The scent of waivers dissipates and
He goes on a tear, a ten-game hitting streak.
He’s safe — for now — and this game of inches
Measures up to its well-earned reputation,
As another player feels the magic touch
Of a game that needs and earns our love,
With a magic wand we call a bat and a stage
We call a field and an audience we call the fans.