The Pitcher

I grew up on baseball.  I cannot remember not having a ball in my hand.  This is spring and baseball has begun again.  This is my tribute to the position that makes the game go round.

The Pitcher

See him there upon the ten inch mound

Watch his gnarled fingers grasp around

A ball red stitched horsehide covered yarn

Far from winter practice in a barn

Like a stallion metal spikes scratch the clay

Preparation to put the ball in play

The tempoed turn of toe on rubber

The wind, the stride, the plant, the hummer

Past the swing into the beckoning mitt

Toward the dugout to rest he stops to spit

His coach ignores his presence there

Nine men tonight have swung at air

He sits, a breath, towel covered shoulder

Returns to field this game is far from over

Touch not his foot the powdered line

Three strikes, three times, back to the pine

Worn bench where heroes sat

Cheers, jeers he strides like a cat

Near halfway now the nine is done

This Koufax piece this throwing gun

Again he strides upon the diamond green

Presents tonight an historic scene

Perfect is his pitch location

Sounds of awe from across the nation

Sweat drops from his battered cap

He rocks, he pivots, and lightning zap

The crowd is hushed they stretch and stand

Though gray his jersey respect he demands

Twice again to gain this feat

His spikes will again the rubber meet

Even though he’s made one hundred throws

Radar gun reveals his velocity grows

Ball in glove before his chest

Deep breath he takes and pirouettes

His mates tonight have got him one

Perfection and the game is done

Paul Mize © 2011