With a runner at second, a righthanded hitter stood at the plate.
He was down by four.
His team was down by four.
But he might’ve tried to even it out.
Get ahead at once!
Instead, he checked his swing on a strike.
When he might’ve drawn the infield in, and punched a liner into shallow left.
Or he might’ve shot a ball into the seats.
Or his team might not be down in the first place.
If this had occurred, or hadn’t.
Maybe it was a hit, a series of errors, a walk.
Maybe it was an infielder out of position.
A nervous veteran on a new team, perhaps.
Four runs would do just now.
But instead, the batter chopped a ball to deep short.
The shortstop ranged to his right, took the ball and flung it to first.
It was too late.
And the game continued, but now with a runner at first and one at third.
If the batter’s team had not been down by four, he wouldn’t have needed to do that.
But maybe he needed to.
To think of something beyond ranging to his left when he meant right.
And with whom he might have dinner on a new team.
And watching the ball leave a pitcher’s hand, red stitches spinning upward.
And standing in a field, fielding ground balls as the evening quieted down.
Bit by bit.
For spring is a series of starts and stops.
One must lead to the next.
by 