Desperate for her favorite baseball team to finally win,
The girl carved secret symbols into an old bat.
Each symbol imbued with power.
She placed the bat in the locker of the team’s worst player.
The hapless slugger grabbed the new bat, unaware of its abilities.
His first at-bat was also the team’s last hope.
The score stood four to two, with 1 more out to play,
And two ducks on the pond.
The crowd whispering, children laughing, hope dwindling.
As he walked to the plate, the bat hummed with magic.
There was tension in his shoulders as he stepped into the box;
There was fear in his countenance and a frown lit his face.
Responding to fan’s murmurs, he lowered his helmet,
No stranger in the crowd doubted he was the worst hitter up to bat.
Forty thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his gloves together;
While the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his glove,
Defiance flashed in the batter’s eye, a sneer curled his lip.
A moment of belief.
And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,
He stood watching it demurely.
Strike one. The masked mediator howled.
“That’s not mine,” he said in his head.
From the stands, packed with people, there went up a muffled groan,
“Swing at the damn ball!!” shouted someone behind the plate;
He smiled if only to silence the rising tumult of the situation;
He dug his foot in again and signaled his readiness to the pitcher,
and once more the sphere hurled towards him;
But he ignored it again and the umpire shouted, “Strike two!”
“Fraud!” cried the maddened thousands at him.
His face grew stern and cold, his muscles strained,
He knew he wouldn’t let that ball go by again.
His fingers clenched the bat in hate, for his inability and their disbelief in him,
He pounded his bat on the plate before the next pitch signaling his readiness;
The sphere raced towards him and destiny once more.
The ball hit the wood, sparks flying off it.
In another life, it soars over the fence
And the batter’s legacy into immortality.
But instead, it landed straight into the fielder’s mitt.
As it turns out, the carvings had their limits.
The girl’s magic was no match for futility.
And for some good old-fashioned,
Leather-flashing defense.
Madonna Writes 
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