by Sid Yiddish
On the day that I was ejected from the old ballpark
Not a man spoke to me, as I was pitching a perfect game,
Old superstition singing its refrain.
All those curveballs, all those knuckleballs straight over home plate,
I was feeling so great and then it happened, top of the seventh,
I let one ball pass thru and it was smashed straight over the left fielder’s head.
Those balls were smacked left and center and right.
I knew I was dead in the water,
Just primed for the manager’s slaughter.
And then it happened, I beaned a batter in the head.
That was the end, as I was sent straight to the showers.
Changed into my street clothes and told to go home for the week.
I picked up my old battered gloves and my brand new mitts.
I knew what was coming next, the newspaper text of how it all fell apart.
I looked so promising, the manager once said to me,
But I knew the difference between promise and reality,
For in reality,
No one pitches perfect games anymore.
For more on Sid Yiddish’s poetry, music and performances, check out his My Space page.
Published in Free Verse, Players, The Game Itself | Link to this poem | No Comments