by R. Gerry Fabian
He came from the Dominican Republic.
A tangle of muscular arms and legs.
He could track a ball in the outfield
with a super radar accuracy.
His arm was above-average but precise.
It was at the plate
that is all seemed to go wrong.
He had no concept of the strike zone.
If he could reach it with his bat,
he would swing hard.
Like a coiled rattler,
he would lash out.
And lo and behold,
he could smash the ball
to every direction of the field.
The hitting coach gave up after
the first three months of instruction.
“What’s the point?”
He told the manager one day.
“The kid’s hitting .367, and
it’s the middle of August.”
