Lenny Dykstra sinks into a deep crouch,
his strike zone no taller than a railroad spike –
jaw set, a chaw in his cheek, blond curly hair
jutting from beneath a Phillies cap.
A slider high and outside –
the lefty hammers it foul,
steps out of the box to curse himself,
spits, whips the air with a practice cut
and digs back in between the chalk lines,
muscled forearms taut and eyes
daring the pitcher to throw a strike.
A low fastball – a compact swing –
a liner into the right field stands.
He circles the bases with choppy steps,
nodding, hands fisted, chin forward.
A player in the other dugout mutters,
“Look at that son of a bitch –
I wish we had him.”