Baseball and Chardonnay
I hold the heavy, thick, short cocktail glass in my hand
filled with cheap chardonnay.
Drain the glass
through the bottom
at the refracted lights
of the ballpark
a wavering image dominating my view
from the living room window.
Why am I not there?Outside Corner, Two Balls, One Strike
No men on base.
A lean, lanky,
left-handed pitcher controls the mound.
He made his major league debut the same year
the shortstop from the opposing team
He is slipping.
And the batter has a good eye.
Wind whips through the park.
Fans pull the hoods of their sweatshirts up
as the batter tosses the bat aside and takes first base.
Circles the white strip on the mound.
Tugs at his cap.
Three walks and four strikes for the inning,
he returns to the white strip in the center of the mound
readies himself to face the next batter.
Places his feet carefully into position.
Leans forward. Leans back.
Pulls his left leg in close, knee to chest.
The left leg extends
and the knuckle ball explodes in slow motion.
Lefty is an almost has-been.
A recent survival of the DL
destined to be traded at the end of the season.
His grey eyes stare into the catcher’s mask.
Ill-used in his waning years,
yet he nods his assent.
The crowd holds their breath,
suspends their disbelief,
rises to their feet.
Clap! Clap! Clap!
They send their supplication out on the air
and the roar of 45,000 voices shouting, whistling
fills the park.
Lefty hears not,
The batter swings.
The crowd roars!
to co-op this victory.