#manthatmachinewasthrowinthedamntwelvetosix
You’d had just enough change to pick it up at the Hall’s gift shop,
As you’d ate sparsely at the down-on-its luck diner
Where the bus had stopped halfway or so through the trip out
(Just as well, given the place’s obvious indifference
To culinary innovation and cleanliness)
And you’d all but sprinted with it
From the cashier straight o the batting cage next door,
Inadvertently ending up in line for the machine
Which threw curveballs
(The kids ahead of you older, most likely high school players
Who made but weak contact with the pitches,
A dream dying a little with each weak tapper and foul-back)
And you went through a handful of futile swings
Before the final pitch came out of the machine,
Spinning oddly and refusing to break toward the plate,
Hitting you in the back with a dull, rubbery thud,
And your teacher, thick-middle man
Who had played a couple seasons in the Indians farm system,
Where he had faced Juan Pizarro (*Son, his hook looked
Like it was coming in from first base*)
Chuckled softly as he rubbed your back,
Saying *It’s like I told you, kid,
This is a hard game*.
Mar 29, 2018
Mar 29, 2018 at 8:32 AM UTC