by Todd Herges
The approaches vary
and depend upon the man.
As each one rises
from the subterranean dugout lair
. onto the field and
. into the light
you feel his aging body ambulate;
sense his agile mind run through options.
The long walk to the mound a torture.
How many millions –
susceptible to the power of suggestion –
crack open a bottle of ibuprofen
every time Charlie saunters past the ump
and up onto that steep hill:
oh the tired sore legs; oh the aching back.
Slow and ponderous the stride, with smoothness
borne of painful experience.
How many millions reach for chondroitin
whenever Bruce toddles to home
for his double-switch notification,
touching his arm before he’s taken two steps
with subconscious hope that the reliever
will beat him to the mound and take the ball
directly from the predecessor.
Slow and rickety-stiff, with youthfulness
bound in his body like a Gulliver.
Yes Bochy’s bones and Manuel’s muscles
are there for all to see
on the great pennant stage Twenty Ten:
Bruce wants bad to keep walking;
Charlie to do it again.
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