The Crack of the Bat
Oct 30 2024
In a crisp fall
the crack of the bat
has a solid thunk;
the hard knock
of a tightly wound ball
on maple or ash,
the satisfying thwack
of leather on wood.
When the fat part of the bat
is hit squarely
there's a a clean sound
a sure finality.
The sweet spot
there's no mistaking.
A baseball fan
knows this sound by heart.
Hearing it again
well struck
recalls the storied greats,
the moments
captured like photographs
when greatness happened,
and the rush
when with one swing of the bat
the gut-busting suspense
was all at once released;
the instant relief
nearly ecstatic.
I suspect I’m not speaking to you,
who finds the sport slow
season long
rules arcane;
over all, a lot of pointless waiting.
Who sees the tradition
and reverence for history
as too self-important
for what's merely a game,
the fall “classic”
more readily forgotten
than etched in posterity.
But the cognoscenti know better.
Even the sound of the bat is stirring,
no matter the score
or even the team.
It recalls the golden falls of playoff ball,
memories
distilled by time
until only the good ones remain;
the selective forgetting
essential
to the uncluttered mind.
It’s a cool evening
beneath an indigo sky
a bit before the stars appear.
The manicured field
under bright stadium lights
is a jewel
on a black velvet bed;
brilliant green
in the dark sea of night.
There’s no mistaking the smell.
Pretzels
oven-fresh,
lukewarm beer
spilled from flimsy cups,
and hot dogs
in soggy buns
with bright ballpark mustard.
Then the crack of the bat,
the dash to first,
and the crowd, rising as one;
all eyes
turned to the heavens
to track the ball,
hands
clutched by their mouths
as if in prayer.
Will the brisk autumn air
dense with cold
stop the ball short,
or will it fly
in a perfect arc
over the fielder’s head
and score the go-ahead run?
In a game of failure
where you’re out, more often than not
you either learn how to fail
or give up the game
for something easier.
And in a game
where even the greats whiff, wild pitch, butcher a catch,
slip on the grass,
or miss the cut-off man,
who knows how it will end;
up against the fence
or in the glove?
But it was solid, that crack.
So we watch,
holding our breath, and urging it on;
as if our thoughts
projected as one
could suspend the law of gravity
if we just hoped hard enough.
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