for Jim Taylor

The anarchist pitcher, the kid

with the leather eye and the horsehide wrist,

shakes off another sign. He wants to throw

the hummer. Top of the ninth,

two down, two on, October, the Kid's nursing

a one-run lead. Now this was before

bullpens, before them goddamn specialists.

The Kid's up there alone.

This was back when the fans could call

the Kid a wop, a goddamn Guido, and not feel

bad about it, which is exactly what they're doing,

and the Kid's just very slowly kneading

his spikes in the rubber till finally

Hongo behind the plate gets the idea and flashes

the fast-ball sign. So the Kid stretches, stops,

reaches back for the heat and yawns

openly as he makes the delivery.

And the ball slices the air, the musclebound drudge

at the plate can't even see it, and the ump thinks

it's high and away but the Kid doesn't believe in his authority:

Fuck him. Strike one.

Then the yelling gets (if anything) louder for the Guido to

Christssakes put the ball over, his manager

being one of the major parties to this between episodes

of spitting tobacco juice and a little blood on the dugout steps

and praying to become smart enough to invent

relief pitching or some goddamn solution, ship the Kid

back to the minors or Italy, he's a one-man

Black Sox scandal, signing autographs for the kiddies

only after scrawling some long incendiary quote

from Pete Kropotkin, missing curfew every night,

apparently not giving shit for the fines;

worse yet, it's spreading: Jesus just yesterday

little Moe Templeton said to a reporter, "While I usually

don't subscribe to propaganda of the deed, I will say

that if Ollie Ledbetter doesn't stop working for

Pinkerton during the offseason,

henceforth when we play Cleveland I will be sliding into

third spikes high." Well, through all this managerial musing

and hawking, the Kid's up there squinting down (but not down

far: this was back when the mound

was the height of a fried egg) for the sign.

This time the curve. OK. Therefore the snake that lives

in the Kid's spine writhes up through his shoulder,

through his arm and out into the ball,

which dances for fifty-nine feet six inches

before it drops down and out, as if weary of

living. The fat boy at the plate attacks it

mightily and misses clean.

Fuck him, and the horse he

rode in on. Strike two.

(But the ump signals one and one.) Not for an instant

does the Kid consider mercy; after all,

some ceremonies are vital; leave mercy

for the real world. Back to the high hard stuff.

So as the manager fumbles for his bottle of Gelusil

or maybe ipecac and Templeton fakes the runner back

to second with the pickoff play, the Kid winds so

that his back faces the batter,

rears back so he faces the sky,

and lets fly. And, Jesus, Hongo the catcher

can hear the ball actually whizzing as it heads

for the plate. Instinctively his glove hand cramps up 

but somehow the fat boy gets some stick on it:

a mile-high fly to the infield,

directly above the mound, it takes

forever to come down, so the runners on first and second

round the bases and even the fat boy trots

home. The Kid calls everybody off, he doesn't

even have to move, three four fans have jumped the fence

and are running around the outfield,

and the Kid dreams of the victory parade:

confetti made of chopped-up fivers floating

down from the sky, and the cheering crowds throwing away

their clothes and keys, and the ball drops

into his glove, he squeezes it,

Hongo and Templeton and the whole team

run for the mound, somebody with a knife

is carving out chunks of the expensive infield,

and the stands empty, and the home

dugout empties except for the manager on the steps

who can scarcely believe he's won, much less what's

in front of him: in all that noise

there is an almost inadvertent beat,

the pandemonium is really a loose dance, now.

The Kid, dancing harder than anyone else, throws

the ball at the sky and it never comes down.