The First Pitch
On the eve of that first pitch when
rookies lay wide awake on their beds,
the night of sleepless minutes,
minutes streaming into hours and beyond,
eyes wide open and pillow soaked in sweat,
fragile nerves jumping out of their caves,
bouncing up and down the jagged spine,
with painful recollections of a day gone by,
the grand slam that won the game
from the hanger he left over the plate.,
or an exhilarating moment of glory,
a hodgepodge of the good and the bad,
a mind set for his first big league game,
a mental preparation for opposing batters,
a rookie’s sleepless night filled with anxiety.
As the morning sun parted the cryptic clouds
and the first day loomed ahead,
the trip to the ballpark was a nervous ride,
of the brave doubting his courage,
a feeling of wanting to go home again,
that comes to mind of all cowards,
the moment of mental anguish.
As the first batter came to the plate
he heard spirits speaking
in tongues not heard before,
standing at the gates of the blessed,
installing a new strength in his soul
with the power to lift up his self-esteem
and grant him ownership
of all opposing batters and
the world they live in,
a hype to exceed all hypes ever imagined,
a new spirit that enters into his domain
with the power to carry it out.
“Strike one, strike two, strike three,”
yelled the umpire behind the plate,
a sound so sweet to his exhilarated heart.
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