This one walked to the plate and knocked mud off his shoes, like he’d been digging for potatoes all afternoon and hadn’t changed yet.
He didn’t care to wait under the lights for a minute longer.
So he swung on the first pitch, and when the ball fell into the seats he must’ve been pleased at what he’d sown.
One might consider the muscle tears and missed calls from loved ones.
And the nights spent staring into hotel courtyards, wondering if this night’s 0-4 might stretch into next week.
At point does one quit?
Perhaps his coaches told him he might continue swinging anyway.
Or maybe no one told him anything.
Perhaps he just dug for a while in hopes that the harvest would come.
Knowing, too, that if he sat for too long, little would take root.
And the nights would fade into mornings just the same.
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