Which pitch is most like life itself?
Is it the fastball that comes at you
straight and true, never deceitful in its intention?
Is it the curve which throws you for a loop,
always upon you to make you look stupid?
Is it the change which advances upon you
deliberately out of step with the
hurried pace of the world?
No, no, it is the lowly knuckleball
which floats and dances across your eyes,
never revealing, like life itself,
the direction it’s going to take.
But only a few are able to master
this delicate pitch, this errant orb.
Similarly, only a few today
are able to master the vagaries of life,
the constant dip and dive of external events
that bedevil us daily, especially this year.
Who but the knuckleball pitcher
can contend with the uncertainties
of this, our plague year?
And he, the artist of this arcane pitch
seems loath to reveal the secrets of his craft.