Full Count

And one out in the bottom of the tied twelfth inning,

The shortstop walks up to hit.

Squeezed by silence,

Seeks out the plate with his cleats,

Moves his sweaty hands to grip the handle,

Taps the bat on the dusty plate,

Studies the powerful pitcher,

Who fingers the seams with his right hand.

Balanced on his right,

The hitter clenches his bat,

Holds his breath,

Bends,

Waits,

And then as a baseball rips through the air,

He transfers his weight and swings.

The ball

Explodes up and out,

Lands,

Rolls,

Is stopped.

The runner rounds third,

Hesitates,

Hustles,

Plays it smart,

Until every face in the place is silent-

And then

And then

And then,

Right before the ball reaches home plate,

The runner slides through.