Reflective uncertainty
Within this pitcher's heart and brain
Changes when he lifts his arms,
As though a king he did not know
Had leapt from some remote but insecure
Cell within his being
And raised a pair of arms
No longer bone and muscle
In the chase of gold and praise.
This giant, scoffing, unexpected
Master held within the chests
Of baseball pitchers, poets weeping
On the graves of loves, railroad conductors,
Chorus-girls—we call him soul:
The name is empty and contains
Only the sound of recognition
Given to the contradicting
Sureness which improves and overawes
Our thoughts and feelings, at the times
When they are most exhausted and alarmed.
Three men are on the bases,
Prancing in an ache to rush ahead,
And the batter at the plate
Swings his club in one half-circle
From his shoulder midway to the ground—
Back and forth—while the club
Nods its yes to ease his watching strain.
He peers out at the pitcher
With the fine, almost impersonal
Scowl held by an athlete
Or a poet when finality
Slowly, slowly takes off its shroud.
The souls of these two men
Scan each other with a massive
Concentration of disdain.
Thought and emotion have become
Helpless accompaniments,
And only two spirits remain,
Deigning to experiment
With the drama that leaps
From the contact of accident
And physical control and skill.
The pitcher throws the ball
While his body shoots forward
In the paradox of insolent pleading.
The ball curves outward in the middle
Of its flight, as though it held
Existence of its own and could reveal
A jovial, impulsive change of mind.
The batter swings and cleaves the air.
The ball falls in the catcher's glove
With a loud sound like the grunt of triumph.
Strike one! The ball returns
To the pitcher, and his lowered arm
Holds it for a moment, with an amiable
Lull of pride and speculation.
Then his face grows tight beneath his soul.
He throws the ball again, and now
It flies in one straight line,
With unearthly, increasing speed.
The batter once more hits the air.
Strike two! The umpire's voice
Becomes the sardonic boo
Of a hired, tired judge.
The scowl upon the batter's face
Shows every shade of worried ferocity,
While underneath his soul stares, calm and still.
Again the pitcher throws the ball.
This time its outward curve ascends
Above the batter's head. Ball one!
The batter shifts with rhythmical
Renewals of plotting and relief,
While the pitcher views him
With a morbid cogitation
Dressed in unconcern.
Again the ball darts out and drops
Almost past the batter's feet,
As though the earth had called some tiny slave.
Ball two! The batter's scowl
Remains but lessens to admit
The lighter poise of confidence,
And the pitcher surveys him
With chagrin and anger—
Twin playthings for his patient soul.
And then a spiritual certainty
Burns quickly through his sweat-soaked flesh.
He throws the ball: its flight curves out
In one, erratic, subtle dare
To the batter's eyes.
The batter swings—one fraction of an inch
Separates his frenzy
From the ball's implacable coyness.
Strike three!—the gamble of souls is over.