The Kid
Posted: 16 May 2019, 21:13
The Kid
I had a three year contract;
I was like a piling driven deep into rock.
I wasn’t going back to the minors:
I had an arm like a Napoleon cannon.
Still, the balls I was hitting
weren't cratering the bleachers,
and rumors of a phenom
with a wisp of down on his upper lip
were circulating.
Some nights in Double A
The Kid damaged the tower's lights
in deep left field like a thug
whaling a bat at a Buick’s headlights.
My batting average started to dip
like a slack rope.
Balls that once leaped off my bat died
like sponge balls in a downpour.
The Kid was called up.
Don’t worry. You’ll be our center fielder
for the next decade, the coach
assured me, in private.
The Kid threw tantrums
like he had studied them on film,
highlights of two year olds in malls,
when an umpire called him out on strikes.
He also peppered the left field roof with homers,
even the pigeons nodding approval.
More and more he was roaming
the patch of bluegrass in center,
and by August I was riding the bench.
Everyone reaches the end
the manager said as he pulled me into his office.
"But playing ball is the only thing I do well,"
I pleaded. He wasn’t listening.
He was looking at The Kid
swinging lumber in the on deck circle.
The pigeons in left field, nervous,
were already flying off, frightened
of another afternoon hailstorm,
The Kid about to step
to the plate.
I had a three year contract;
I was like a piling driven deep into rock.
I wasn’t going back to the minors:
I had an arm like a Napoleon cannon.
Still, the balls I was hitting
weren't cratering the bleachers,
and rumors of a phenom
with a wisp of down on his upper lip
were circulating.
Some nights in Double A
The Kid damaged the tower's lights
in deep left field like a thug
whaling a bat at a Buick’s headlights.
My batting average started to dip
like a slack rope.
Balls that once leaped off my bat died
like sponge balls in a downpour.
The Kid was called up.
Don’t worry. You’ll be our center fielder
for the next decade, the coach
assured me, in private.
The Kid threw tantrums
like he had studied them on film,
highlights of two year olds in malls,
when an umpire called him out on strikes.
He also peppered the left field roof with homers,
even the pigeons nodding approval.
More and more he was roaming
the patch of bluegrass in center,
and by August I was riding the bench.
Everyone reaches the end
the manager said as he pulled me into his office.
"But playing ball is the only thing I do well,"
I pleaded. He wasn’t listening.
He was looking at The Kid
swinging lumber in the on deck circle.
The pigeons in left field, nervous,
were already flying off, frightened
of another afternoon hailstorm,
The Kid about to step
to the plate.