He's instructing rookies when, impatient, he grabs the bat.
Motions toward the coach at Iron Mike.
Thrusts bat like a pointer at his awestruck pupils
taking a ball inside. "Like this. Don't let 'em jam
you," & for emphasis, gently raps one through
between short & second,
three pimple-faced rabbits gaping at each position.
"Make 'em put it out here, where you can get good
wood." Shuffles backward, diligently off-field
hitting pitch after pitch, as he never did at Fenway,
teaching .250 farmhands to poke & slash.
The change comes gradually, but the balls start rising.
white moons in the sunlit sky,
then meteors, plunging into the warning track,
drifting toward the right field fence.
"I'm Ted fucking Williams,"
he growls beneath his breath,
"batting champion of the major fucking leagues,"
& everybody ducks sudden hard line drives,
the crash of his bat the only sound in the park
for five, ten, fifteen minutes,
until one disappears. Embarrassed, he quits.
"Here, kid." Hands the bat to some young stringbean
who can barely swing it, from stunned amazement.
"You try it."
"Mr. Williams," he blurts, as ballboys scramble,
out past the light tower,
"why'd you quit?"
Toweling off, Williams doesn't answer.
Scowls at the DH, loosening up near the dugout,
21 years since his last home run,
4 years before the kid was born.
Baseball & the Lyrical Life
Edited by Tom Colnoy
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