The play of the game.

Center Fielder

Dusting of his cap and leaping to the voice of his coach

Out into the April sun, he charges the field.

The wind echoing in his ear as he picks up speed

The scent of freshly mown grass invades his senses.

Stopping at his position, he bends and yanks a swath.

Grinding the blades between his fingers he takes a deep breath.

The crowd settles in their seats as the umpire signals

Glove on he waits for whatever his opponent can muster.



Honoring his coach and team with steely eyes he focuses.

The pitcher sets and for a moment time stops.

And then the windup begins.

Listening to the chorus of the crowd he watches the delivery.

The pitch, the swing...



Crack!!!



The ball bursts through the infield like a comet.

The crowd roars and eighty thousand eyes focus on his next move.

All his muscles tense as he gauges the white streak.

A calculation in a millisecond and the sprint begins.

His destiny approaches fast.



Too fast, too low, no fly catch here.

Its a hard single, probably a double but not if he can help it..

Track, track, track...It's going to drop, hold back, wait, wait, wait...



Now!!!



Already ahead of the ball as it explodes off the grass

Leaving a small cloud of dirt marking its impact.

He imagines the next three seconds.

The ball's whirling red stitches like an archer’s target loom quickly.

But his stride is unbroken and his position is perfect.



The runner rounds first...



Like a final chess strike, the players line up to meet their fate.

Short stop to shallow left center. Left center behind to insure the play.

Second base is calling; the pitcher is halfway there.

Don't think… React! Make it count!



Slap!



The ball freezes in the bare palm of his throwing hand.

But only for an instant as he shifts his weight to launch.

He rears his forward leg, drawing the ball far behind him

And like a tightly coiled spring releases his energy in a furious instant.



In a spasm of muscular ballet, the ball rockets from his hand.

Upward and to the left of second, a wayward throw?

Not today as the ball breaks down and back as he had foreseen.

A parabola of perfection, on the fly, lands squarely into an anxious glove.

A desperate slide, a ginger hop, and a fluid left arm sweep.



Your Out!!!



One battle won in a nine-inning war.

So it’s back to the trenches on a beautiful day.