Stephen Sinicrope lives and writes in Rochester, Minnesota.

First to Bat
By Stephen Sinicrope

My whole team behind me,
I tap the base twice for good luck,
their cheers excite me.
The pitcher twice my size grimaces
under puffy eyes, throws the ball.

I swing.

Legs, core, shoulders, arms, all
in perfect synchronization,
a hearty swing unnaturally light.
And then it hits . . .
the flesh over my stomach,
evacuating all air from my lungs.
The team gasps, their cheers peter
out and a choice is made:
Will I take the painful trot to first
or close my eyes and cry?
As my midsection contorts,
tendrils of pain threaten
to curl my body back to infancy.
But how can I close my eyes when pairs of theirs
burn holes through my back
to find what I’m made of.
no.  No.
I peel back cracked lips and smile as I turn.
I hobble, one foot then the other
along the chalked white line,
the grass begins to bubble and fizz,
static fills my ears.

I woke up to the bench.

~

I walk down the hall, finding pitchers everywhere; obsessed with their phones and nails, or attempting to pawn debt and intoxication in some fluid mixture.  It feels hopeless; everyone seems to be nothing more than a face in the crowd.  Why am I the only one that always seems to be up to bat? I can’t even make it to first before collapsing in a pained sensory slumber.  My control oscillates from self-pity and repugnance to determination to make use of my failure.  Sometimes the contrast between in and out becomes one with the cycle of the sun.  But I will be ok. As long as I learn the patterns of the stars, accustom myself to finding exactly where I am.