It’s just part of the game
The pull of tides, or trench warfare
Advance, retreat, inside then outside
Pound away, brush back, jab and feint
Shudder and syncopate
Put just enough fear
Into the batter to make him think
You want him thinking, not acting.

Except this big fella, arms as long
As a five-run inning, straight and tall
Like a piling stuck out of the sea. Silent.
Never moves, never needs to, never
Feels fear. He doesn’t exist within
The game, doesn’t follow its rhythm.
Have to bust him inside anyway.

The lights got in his eyes, you say later
Say it a thousand times
People still ask, all this time later
The lights were old. They weren’t very high.
The ball would get lost in them. (Why
Are you standing still, you crazy bastard?
Think, god damn it. Move! Move!)

A couple hundred fans in the bleachers
And they all heard it: That sickening
Crunch, then a dozen more, the echoes
Consuming the air like a flame

A whole rest, the pause
Before the conductor lowers the baton

A sound that consumes everything
Takes the air, takes the light in his eyes

Takes everything from him but his name

They write down his name, and yours
They don’t write about after, how the
Ambulance disappeared and the siren followed
And a couple hundred fans waited
Until they called in a pinch hitter.
Most of them said it wasn’t your fault
It’s just part of the game