For Russ Allen
You were born to do this. You’re pitching the game, for God’s sake! You’re above it all, raised high on that sculpted mound of earth. Home or away, you make this mound your own: toe-scraping the dirt this way or that, digging a groove to catch your forward-moving front foot after releasing each pitch. Your glove is your shield. You throw strikes & balls. You force pop-ups & ground-outs to veterans & rookies alike, some of them future Hall-of-Famers. You might end up with a gleaming record yourself one day, but you take it one game at a time. One inning at a time. Really just one pitch at a time. You’re pitching the game!
You’ve got your arsenal: fastball (of course), cutter, curveball, maybe a decent change-up. You throw faster than the speed limit. Batters wear special head gear because of you, just in case. You’re scary good. You shouldn’t be able to do what you do with your arm. Sweat runs between your shoulder blades—crazy-cold in April, boiling-point-hot in July. And every pitch you’re hoping a loved one’s watching: a parent, your sweetheart. Look, Ma, look at me! You can’t believe you made it this far, considering where you came from. But here you are. You’re pitching the game, for God’s sake!
You know you’re not alone. You’ve got an infield & outfield behind you, with even more teammates in the dugout. They back you up like you’ll win every game from now until forever. And there’s a catcher calling the game, not that you don’t shrug him off sometimes. Plus all the people cheering in the stands. They root for you because they know how tough it is. They struggle just like you. They’ve got mortgage payments & leaky roofs & goofy in-laws & problems that just won’t quit. They want to be part of something as big as their dreams. And right now each pitch connects these people to you. It forms a bond. But it has its limits. Today your pitch count may rise to 100, or you could be tossed after only 20 throws. But still. You’re pitching this game.
How long did it take you to make it to The Show? How many stuffy bus rides & lousy trades & cheap motel rooms & painful injuries did you endure before this one glorious game, this delicious evening of popcorn & ice cream, hotdogs & beer? People don’t think about that—all you suffered before you even got here.
And out of uniform, maybe nobody knows you. Maybe you’re just a number in a circle of dirt out there. Maybe you took someone’s place who wanted it more, needed it more. But it was your dream too. And sometimes the dream’s a nightmare. Maybe you walk a guy. Or the dreaded crack of the bat—the ball comes zooming at your face with no time to defend yourself. And now you’ve allowed a hit. Maybe two. Now there are guys on base—& they’re not your guys. You feel the eyes of the base runners drill holes at the back of your neck. You try to zero in on the batter in the box. Some days you don’t know if your bones are made of steel or glass.
These base runners want to score. All they dream about is crossing home plate, putting up a crooked number. And that’s on you. You allowed those runs, even if you never meant it to come to this. Good intentions & all that bullshit. But whatever happens, you’re pitching the game.
All the while The Game moves on. You try to keep it moving at your own pace. But you know there’s another pace they don’t tell you about. It’s the one you can’t change—& it’s the only one that counts. The season is longer & shorter than you’ll ever know.
And the pitcher’s mound is a lonely hill.
***
Anne Rankin’s poetry has appeared in Rattle, Comstock Review, Atlanta Review, The Healing Muse, Hole in the Head Review, Passager, Whale Road Review, Kelp Journal, and Maine Public Radio’s Poems from Here; as well as The Nature of Our Times: Poems on America’s Lands, Waters, Wildlife, and Other Natural Wonders. Quarter After Eight recently published a piece of her micro-fiction.
