Fast Pitch 1

Sitting in the box seats

for my first major league game

with my three year old son - too young?

For baseball?  For box seats?  Not possible...

We were right there

between home plate and first base

and for the first time

we watched every pitch.

Each pitch consistent yet different

and most clocking over 90 mph.

It was mesmerizing.

I found myself entranced

with the steady rhythm

of the pitcher's pattern

of feet roughing up the mound

chewing and spitting

looking to first and third

the throw to second to hold

the intrepid runner at first.

Hypnotic dynamics, the roaring organ

and the high volume announcers

shifting to talking low

during the feet roughing, chewing, spitting

coolly reporting the count of each pitch

trading stats and gossip up in the box

keeping up the background chatter.

Then, suddenly the volume explodes

the announcers, the crowd, loud

emotional and on the edge of sanity

during the scoring plays and errors

highlighting and replaying

the player’s record breaking skill

respectable hard earned athleticism

shameful loss of control

or poor sportsmanship.

The announcer, the classic organ

and ready to go band sound bites

the baseball anthems

and pulsing visuals

on the score board

guiding the full stadium

to ecstasy or let down

depending on which side

you are loyal to. 

Sometimes the play is so beautifully

executed and the team work so tight

you well up for the other side too.

By the second inning

nothing else in life matters.

It's all in the pitch.

I wonder if the pitcher's shoulders

look different under his shirt

if one is bionically muscled

and the other just regular

looking dwarfed in comparison.

It’s all the posturing out there

the nervous tics,  jaw tight, constantly chewing

and tongue packing his cheek,

hand adjusting brim backed hat

eyes moving with head not turning

suddenly between pitches

ball thrown to first

to hold back pandemonium

and this time he nails

that base stealer on the run.

I’m in awe, that nobody ever

misses the catch and has to go

running for it while the stealer

gets to 3rd or scores

like back in 5^th  grade softball.

The pitcher and catcher speak volumes

silently, in sign, in front of their balls

or their faces where nothing registers

while each batter is sized up

and strategies are set between them

such that the batter may or may not know

what's coming at him.

And so it goes

inning after inning

the patterns, tics, talks

practiced perfections and errors

the lone batter up against

the pitcher’s team machine

and it’s all him no hers.

It's still a man's world

and it all rides on a fast pitch.