Last at Bat

Handful of spit and dirt
Cleats sunk in the crumbling earth
He huffed a frosty breath of October air.
The sinews still rippled in forearms
As they did nineteen years past
Knuckles white on the handle
as the bat swung slowly in anticipation
Uniform stretched tight across a spreading belly,
and black hair frosted with gray
pinch-hitter for a blasted hurler
in the last inning
of the last game of the year.
Crowd applauds
A few, remembering, stand in salute
and the young pitcher wipes an upper lip
wide-eyed shakes off the call
nods to the sinker
kicks and delivers
The ball a specter in the batter's eyes,
he swings and misses fastball
knife in the shoulder muscle
wincing hard as the catcher's mitt pops
Stepping back
Spits in the dust
yanks shirt-front square
He steps into the box again
flexes aching shoulder
as the bat repeats its slow threat
Pitcher's arm drops
the curve hangs
then dodges his bat.
On third base Schneider takes a lead
The pitcher stares him down
and the batter sees
in split second
the knuckleball grip
before the glove conceals it
He waits and it is thrown
center-shot and numbers-high
no spin
the stitching motionless
as it drops like a round stone
in a dark quiet pool
His shoulder screams at the contact
the hickory electric in his hands
which carry the handle through
as the shattered wooden barrel
skips down the third base line
shortstop vaults in vain
as the ball falls behind him
like a dove shot from the sky
He flings away the broken shaft
halfway to first
sees the baseman strain
toward the expected throw
shortstop scrambling
lump of the bag beneath left toe
snap of the baseman's mitt
and the umpire calls safe
As he turns back to first base
he hears the sound of the crowd
and feels the sweat cooling in his collar
he draws deep breath and holds it in
as if the very air were sweet with magic
and he longed to keep it inside him
for ever