April 6th - Stolen Bases

When watching pop-flies from second base,
Legs coiled for the second outfield makes the play,
I make eye contact, scan his face,
As if to say: let’s go punk, make my day.

He knows from my look what I intend,
Loads his hips and shoulders, like a gun,
Then fires the ball like a bullet to fend
off my frantic, bonus-base run.

But my coach is bright; he has a reason
for putting me in line as fifth at-bat:
I rack up twenty or more runs in a season
from bonus bases; coach knows that.

He puts me in deliberately
before three sluggers who swing it big.
With so much distance ‘twixt the ball and me,
I’ll grit my teeth, and smile, and dig.

I attack the diamond on every pop-fly,
and my stolen-base average is stellar;
Sure, I make pitchers’ ERAs climb sky-high,
but my RBI total is dead in the cellar.

Once I’m on base it’s a battle of strengths:
The outfielders’ ranges versus my speed.
Enemy coaches have gone to great lengths
To find the remedy they all seem to need.

I’ve faced catchers, lefties, plate-blockers too,
Daring right-fielders, hoping for fame,
Lanky centers trying to stop me at two;
Yet none have thrown me off my game.

Today was like any other of those days.
I rushed on home and the crowd was mum;
I slid hard as the catcher rushed to the plate,
I lay there, dusty, dirt in my gums.

The ump rushed over, mask off for his sight,
and waited for the dust to settle back in,
Then spread his arms wide like a bird in flight
To signal SAFE. All I could do then was grin.