Stick it in his ear, Bill Harrill yells to Stan. Bases full, 
		one ball, two strikes the count, he means for Stan 
		to throw his fastball high inside; he means to scare me, 
		psyche me out, and then they'd make me chase a pitch 
		outside and low. But Stan shakes off the sign, 
		and Bill, behind the plate, spits out, oh hell, 
		so I gamble on a curveball, low inside.
    
			Is there a rationale that would tell me why a graybeard 
			in his seventies still relives a single turn at bat 
			in a baseball game that happened sixty years ago--
			in full detail? The dusty August night, the moths 
			in their futile dance around the arc-lights, 
			the moon in and out of the clouds.

		Stan's windup is a mime of flailing limbs against
		a backdrop cast of fielders leaning in and runners 
		leading off, and when the ball leaves his hand at last, 
		in that fraction of a second as it finds its destination, 
		all stratagems are moot, the body's reflex rules, 
		and though the pitch seems headed straight at me, 
		I dare not flinch nor compromise 
		the skin-thin macho mask evolved in boys fifteen.
    
			The Japanese, I've heard, fell in love with baseball 
			when they saw the duel between the batter 
			and the pitcher. It brought to mind their martial arts, 
			where the underdog might sometimes overcome 
			the heavyweight. At odds of three to one, 
			the underdog's the batter.
      
		The spinning, arcing ball streaking toward 
		the strike zone, I swing and feel the sweet-spot thwack 
		of bat on ball; I see the baseball falling barely fair 
		inside the left field line, and rounding first, I sense 
		the moon blown free of clouds, 
		the air so weightless I must float to second base. 

					--- Julian Crowell
					
					My thanks to Passager for publishing "Curveball"
					in their Summer 2006 issue.