Slider in the Nineties
Batter up to the plate he comes to bat,
chewing tobacco as to the ground he spat,
staring at the pitcher with intrepid eyes
his confidence moved up and up on the rise.
Strike one on the outside corner of the plate.
Strike two outside he swung and took the bait.
Ball one outside but he didn’t go fishing.
He looked for the middle of the plate while wishing.
Then he crowded the plate for an outside pitch
and stared down the pitcher that son-of-a-bitch.
He looked for a big fat ball on the outside corner
to drive it to the opposite field getting warmer.
That slider came at his head in the high nineties,
headed for the outside he thought he sees.
He didn’t get out of the way and lost his helmut.
It didn’t break and to his temple it struck.
He went down with his hands to his face
and the blood squirted out from that same place.
He laid on the ground and didn’t move an inch.
To the hospital he went from where he’d bin.
No more sliders could he ever see again.
They don’t play baseball up in heaven.
