over the field, a host of buzzing angels,
the high white lights, presided
and cast over the infield diamond
a heavy halo. The umpire fastidiously tidied
the corners of the plate and fell into pose
over the catcher, figures in a stained-glass window
all hanging over the chancel of the tattered
batter’s box which jailed calm Isaac Casey, iconoclastic
threat to the home-team victory. All eyes fell
on the would-be altar, on him,
and added to the burning white light, angelic
wattage. Just before the pitcher began the elegy
being right then written, Isaac’s bat drooped like ripe spelt
as he spotted his dad’s truck pulling in beyond
the congregated crowd. One foot withdrawn
from the box, “Time, Blue,” he called.
All Spring, his father with such urgency taught
him the core art of bat and ball, the rudiments,
preached on sacrifice, and instructed without abstractions
unfondly, as if the balance of his soul would depend
on the soaking up of those sacred skills. Indeed
every Sunday, Isaac gobbled up the sermons engendering
in him a lust for attacking grounders, and smashing
fastballs, for crushing curveballs and snatching
hard liners from the sky. So now, he returned to the box
pocked by cleat-craters, anointed in stadium-light, eyed the opposing octet.
One voice cut the summer’s night, gruff as an embattled
captain. It was Kyle Spalding, Shortstop
rallying the troops, “Two down boys! Let’s hear some chatter!”
The defense, following orders contracted,
chanting like scripture, “Hey batter!”
The strikes, deadly blows, fell one, two, three,
defeating young Isaac, leaving
his little hopes in a slain heap,
bitter tears.
By: L. Raymond Andrews
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| http://khqtoday.com/sports/2014/08/28/2014-little-league-world-series-recap/ |
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