The 210-pound batter
stepped into the pitch
a fast ball
right down the heart
of the plate

His whole body twisted
As the ball
Flew off the bat
100 miles per hour
Right at the pitcher

Who didn’t have time
To throw up his glove
And the ball
Hit him in the nose
Smashing it

Blood poured out
As the pitcher stumbled
And crumpled to the ground
Lying still
Not even a twitch

Then the cart was out there
And four or five people
Were at the mound
The players, shocked,
Stayed away
As he was lifted
Onto a stretcher

And you could see his uniform
He wore number four
The white jersey
Soaked in blood
Contrasted with the green of the field
As the cart slowly headed off

And the teenager
beside me
never looked up
from her