A collage of color, green grass, blue sky,
Ballpark excitement, the crowd on a high.
Midst echoes of anthem – a scene to enthrall,
Then the ump broke the spell by shouting “Play Ball.”

I towed the rubber, looked down for the sign,
Calm in the knowledge my mechanics were fine.
Started my wind-up, fingers loose on the stitch,
With a powerful leg kick, down came my pitch.

As it sped toward the plate, meteor-like,
I knew from its movement no doubt was a strike.
When the ump confirmed, I let go my breath …
The battle was joined, much like in Macbeth.

I live for this moment, to throw and to hurl,
To fire and to fling, to sling and to twirl
Fast balls and sliders, sinkers, the curve,
Knucklers and change-ups – see how they swerve?

And too the challenge, the matching of wits,
Me seeking outs, the batters their hits.
It’s our national pastime, adversaries at play …
Been done that way since Doubleday.

Pitching, it’s said, is the name of the game.
If indeed true, I’m compelled to proclaim
On The Field of Dreams the most hallowed ground
Is my place of toil – the pitcher’s mound.