He didn’t like baseball,
a room temperature average guy.
Ran track for a bit, wrestled,
did well with cross country,
but baseball–not his sport.
He thought about all of this
standing in left field,
the sky overcast, might even rain,
no real wind, a bit humid, not that hot.
He was glad there was no sun.
The pitcher threw a fast ball,
low and inside. Definitely a bad pitch,
but the batter liked the way it spun,
stepped into the ball with power
sending it his way–his way!–,
too fast, too furious, angry even.
He took off as if he were a gazelle,
forgot his dislike of the game,
forgot about a lack of coordination,
forgot that everyone was watching,
At the last moment near the wall,
he leaped as if he were a bat and the ball,
an insect, prey for his mitt.
When he came down, the ball in his hand,
he heard screams of delight,
an applause he did not understand.
He threw the ball easily to the infield
as if throwing a ball was a part of his arm..
He didn’t even realize the inning,
how the game was nearing an end,
how he, with one moment of perfect,
brought his side to victory.