[Frank]

Things Fall Apart

The fastball brushed the batter off the plate, with a thunderous whistling:
The Farm System fields had grass cut so neat, that our cleats looked fucking forbidden.
The screwball was cutting and twisting and jumping and flipping. I swung and I'm missing.
The next pitch is right in my wheelhouse - I fight it off into the upper pavilion;
..
A lone fan runs through the stands, through the seats, tripping, and catches it with a glove of Wilson color stitching
I hear mother’s rendition from the bleacher seat disrupting the pitching.
The megaphone almost got her suspended for an entire season, but she won the decision.
All the players say I'm lucky to have such a cool mom -
they just wish she wasn't belligerent when I was up because it's become somewhat of a hindrance...
The rally cap in her hand is a windmill in a tornado - pushing the runner to second, like a third base coach - conducting and spinning.
SAFE!
Feet-first-sliding-into-the-shortstop-in-a dusty collision...
The whole crowd erupted from crickets and started a wave that had everybody's hands up - living!
It had a playoff atmosphere setting but it was just an exhibition
The pitcher shrugged off the change up and threw a cutter with precision.
The young gunner was clocked at speeds that numbed such hitters
CLUNK
The ball hit the bat, foul tipping into the rows scented in a buttered tradition.
The concession stands brewed lemon aid and spinning cotton candy the vendors lugged for commission.
HOTDOGS !
BEER HERE !
GET YOUR BEER HERE -
Overflowing cups spilling after every run getting in - drunk on television
The manager makes a mound visit.
The pitcher talks behind a glove in decryption.
The opposing teams scouts, making notes; judging - revision, judging; fiddling with pens, while the bullpen warms up another addition.
'The Yankees farm system is tough to break into, theirs some tough competition.'
The Umpire cleans off home plate: brushing the prism.
The manager calls for a double switch and the closer runs out from left field, with no name, just a number inscription.
The catcher beats his catcher-mitt and warm up throws: thud with conviction.
The knuckle ball - clumsily falls; into the glove and the thumb is inflicted
The warm up tosses are over with - I've studied the pitches...
My pine-tar grip on the alpine bat is ready to deliver in the clutch
The signal -

Shirt across
Arm up and down
Hat
Watch
Double clap

Runners in position - the runner has been sent, but he's gunned from a distance.
I hear the megaphone relentless; my mother is pumped up,
Ejected.
The pitcher winds up and I slump limber; jutting the timber -
BLUE calls strike 2 with ump vigor
I wink at the pitcher. He's thinking Home Run
He coughed up flem and spun the spitter
This pitcher had the kind of stuff that could stun a hitter
Ninth inning, make the cut, deliver
Lumber splinter
Broken bat, sacrifice bunt

- The winner