A twinge he did not like, a merest shade
Of feeling, as easily second to first they played
One out away from this game, a thousand outs
He hoped from his last one. With dance, with shouts
They fired a circle around him and lobbed him the ball.
He paced and stooped and tried not to recall
What his shoulder had almost felt. He fastened a lace
Halfway between the rubber and first base,
Not even a line near, no man's land but his,
The hope, the fear, the silence none but his
And the twings he did not like, the merest shade,
Then, because there was nothing else to do,
He went back for the signal, kicked up a toe and threw.
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