In the top of the first inning
the man behind the backstop,
by his bright red team jersey probably
a StubHub chump paying top dollar
to sit so close to the field, just this once,
has realized that each time the pitcher
comes to rest in his motion,
fingers feeling for the stitches,
that he is momentarily in the frame of the shot
from the centerfield camera four hundred feet away,
and so now he is waving to that camera
and to all of us at home ensconced in our couches
and recliners, our formerly empty lives now complete.
He is close enough in the third row
to see the flat-screen monitors embedded in the wall
for the well-heeled denizens to check replays,
and he begins to watch himself waving on the screen,
waving to himself it seems, and waving back.
In the first inning he waves on every pitch,
trying to extend his Warhol window,
keeping his eyes on the monitor to make sure.
By the second inning his achievement
has worn a little thin, so now he is on the phone
to tell a friend to watch him wave,
and he waves harder, but after a little while
you can tell that thrill is gone for both of them,
and by the fourth inning it’s call after call––
“Guess where I am, Fred,” “Guess where I am, Wanda”––
whomever he can reach who can be coaxed
to a television to watch him, well, wave.
After he’s run out of friends, co-workers, and
distant cousins, he keeps it up, perhaps
feeling obliged now to all those he called
in case they are still watching,
until it’s the queen’s wave, a stiff wrist
atop a swiveling forearm, to conserve his strength.
In the seventh inning it strikes him
to preserve this bit of personal triumph
and so he lifts his phone in front of his face
to capture his spot in the stands, then
turns around to snap his view of the field,
out where some people seem to be playing
some sort of game.