the moment

Walking up to the batter’s box
with the bases loaded
two outs
down by one
in the semifinal game
I had already walked
through most of my 30s
but the memory still gripped me
of decades before
standing in the outfield
soaked in summer sun
hoping to run and dive and slide
occasionally distracted
by bees dotting white clover flowers
because no one ever hits it
way out to right field
where with tight white itchy
polyester pants bloused
at the grass-stained knees
and a hat a little too big

on ears a little too big
I hold my glove
conditioned with oil and
sweat and dirt and sunblock
in front of my face
while I provided the play-by-play

to the leather lashes
and forged Willie McGee signature
along the thumb
of coming to bat
in the bottom of the 9th
bases loaded
two outs
down by three
here’s the pitch
swing and a long one
into left field
and the crowd goes wild
in my 10-year-old imagination
when the small hard white ball
that I hit
goes over the wall
to win the World Series

Now I stand in the box
clothes and dreams
a little looser
hat and joints
a little tighter

ball and body
a little softer
still remembering
the glove on my face
the bees on the flowers
the oil, the sweat,
the dirt, the sunblock
the daydream of someday baseball glory
and the moment
all hanging
right in front of me
like the moon
in the balmy night air
here’s the pitch
swing and a long one
into center field
and the crowd goes wild
at the city park
when the big soft yellow ball
that I hit
fell
into the fielder’s glove
to end the game

Chris Reed is new to poetry after years writing sports blogs and marketing copy. He lives in St. Louis, MO with his wife, three adorable dogs, and three backyard chickens.