by Peter Witt
Just once I want to stand at home plate in the bottom of the ninth,
game tied, bat in my hand, staring at the pitcher, waiting,
breath still, for a 95 MPH fastball, hung out over the plate—
like a lion waiting for its prey to make a move.
Pitcher would wind up, just beating the 20 second clock,
as I uncoil and smash the ball off the barrel of my bat—
thunder cracking from the heavens--take two steps forward,
flip the bat, as the ball soars, a comet slicing through the sky—
as I begin a slow dance down the first base line, hands over head
like a conquering hero, as the thankful fans stand and cheer.
Rounding third I'd low-five the coach, then trot home
where after jumping on the plate I'd be engulfed in the joy
and comradery of my teammates, who'd slap my helmet,
my butt, my back, while our catcher sprayed a bottle
of water over my head.
The mob of players would whisk me away, like a gust of wind,
to the dugout where the cape of honor would be bestowed
around my shoulders, more slaps to the helmet administered,
as our first baseman pushes me back up the steps
to take a curtain call from the grateful fans.
I'd wink at my wife in the stands, like a conquering hero,
wipe the mist from my eyes, pause a minute, survey
the entire stadium, the weight of the moment settling in,
knowing that this was a lifetime dream made real.
game tied, bat in my hand, staring at the pitcher, waiting,
breath still, for a 95 MPH fastball, hung out over the plate—
like a lion waiting for its prey to make a move.
Pitcher would wind up, just beating the 20 second clock,
as I uncoil and smash the ball off the barrel of my bat—
thunder cracking from the heavens--take two steps forward,
flip the bat, as the ball soars, a comet slicing through the sky—
as I begin a slow dance down the first base line, hands over head
like a conquering hero, as the thankful fans stand and cheer.
Rounding third I'd low-five the coach, then trot home
where after jumping on the plate I'd be engulfed in the joy
and comradery of my teammates, who'd slap my helmet,
my butt, my back, while our catcher sprayed a bottle
of water over my head.
The mob of players would whisk me away, like a gust of wind,
to the dugout where the cape of honor would be bestowed
around my shoulders, more slaps to the helmet administered,
as our first baseman pushes me back up the steps
to take a curtain call from the grateful fans.
I'd wink at my wife in the stands, like a conquering hero,
wipe the mist from my eyes, pause a minute, survey
the entire stadium, the weight of the moment settling in,
knowing that this was a lifetime dream made real.
Peter Witt is a Texas poet, a frequent contributor to The New Verse News and other online poetry web-based publications.