Love from someplace far afield dismayed me.
The pop fly, brusque rondure, dropped into my glove
for one easy out, for one chance to lead
with chin and shoulders high. The athletic slug
returned the sport of a dug-out’s underhanded night
that picked at downy fuzz and nap on tarpaulin
or sedately sought among the clover for a cohort.
Fleet leaf, so brief. Not even worth the time it takes
to say, “the Stallions trounced us roundly on that turf.”
He made clever with the puns on balls and strikes.
More clever still with brawn. He used his body as a club.
I nabbed his easy lob. The stands came scurrying down.
That queer joy of meteoric triumph shouldered me,
who spied his tinct, his quick red head hung down.