Nine Man

A year of dating that went into extra innings—
each night on the mound assessing the batter,

behind the back assessing the throw:
curveball, slider, just inside or out,

but no matter how I configured the fingers,
whatever the grip, somewhere in the windup,

or just as the arm rounded to position,
or right at the release, everything shifted,

and then, again, knuckleball,
floating toward the strike zone

then breaking, fluttering, the hardest pitch
to hit, with no way to bring it back,

no recall, well beyond the days of do-over
at the park, after years of practice

and thousands of throws, I should know better,
but a wild arm that could not be tamed,

that no one could hit off of,
because each man, each batter,

was seen as a man, but then you,
the tenth, not usually in the lineup,

the designated hitter, you were a man
seen as a person, and I relaxed my grip,

threw a simple fastball right down the middle
to let you get on base, because in your face,

the kid with the most intent,
you more than anyone wanted to get there,

and I knew, eventually,
you were the kind of man who would steal

if necessary, the kind of man
who could find your way home.