I could always put wood on the ball
Yet I never made the starting nine
Bench was tattooed above my eyes
That day I came on in the sixth to pinch hit
For a guy who had already struck out twice
I longed to swing hard for the fence
But a southpaw was on the mound
I knew my job with a man on base
My drag bunt went right past
His throwing arm like a swinging door
Too short for the first baseman’s tag
I had my base and moved my man ahead
And there we both died
So here I was in the bottom of the ninth
Alone in right field with no lefties in sight
Our one run lead had not dimmed their hopes
Especially when their lead-off singled
I began to see myself wearing number nine
Smashing Woods Playground’s final hopes
When the pop up came I had to switch Ted off
Took it on a bounce and one-hopped it hard
Into our third baseman’s mitt
But the sissy had stopped at second standing up
That was the last time I touched the ball
Two quiet outs to gaze at the diving sun
A hot dog for our singleton win
And only the dream of hearing Williams’ cheers
THE POETRY OF THE GAME