Between pitches, he takes three,
Four steps toward home plate,
Smooths infield dirt with cleated toe,
No pebble, no divot, no bad hop.
Satisfied, he glances 'round the infield,
Man on first, man on second, step on third.
He's ready now, locked in on what's next;
He chatters at the pitcher bearing down,
As catcher signs at the mound, slightly,
His mitt moves, signaling inside pitch.
This hitter pulls everything; it'll be on him
To go round-the-horn, to end this nailbiter.
As the ball screams down the line over his bag,
He doesn't even know he's moved, til flat out
In backhanded dive, he feels webbed inside
The ball. He's quickly on his feet, throwing
To first baseman, slipped behind fallen runner.
With his mates then, he's lost in crowd's embrace.
Photo Credit: Clay Brown on Unsplash
