A Yankees batter stood at home.
He took a strike.
Then he took two more.
Then he stood with his bat on his shoulder, staring at lines in the ash.
From dust to dust.
Maybe he wondered why he didn’t swing even once.
Or why the ball cut a centimeter more to the left on that last pitch.
After studying the pitcher throw from the dugout, he might’ve guessed the ball would curve right.
Unless a player told him what was left.
Or a coach paused and said, “By the way.”
When the player stood between the chalk lines tracing home plate, he saw it for himself.
And he waited, with his bat on his shoulder.
by 