The wave of sound hits you 
as the bullpen gate opens
and you trot in from right field.
“Your attention please,” the PA blares,
“Now pitching for Los Angeles¦ 
number 13 …”
The rest is drowned out by the 
thunderous roar of the beast.
At the mound, Alston takes the ball
from Koufax and hands it to you.
“Save it for me, kid,” Sandy says,
looking you right in the eye,
the left arm of God hanging at his side.
Another roar from the beast
as he strides off the mound,
head held high,
the greatest pitcher in the world.
But you know it’s a dream.
During Sandy’s six glory years,
after he finally found home plate
and became the closest thing 
to unhittable
anyone living had ever seen,
Smokey Alston never would have
taken him out of a game,
pitch count and arthritic arm 
be damned.
Not even with you in the bullpen.