Rob Vogt - "The Path to the Dugout"

Right-handers are power pitchers.
They come from Texas, raised on beef
and christened with names like Nolan and Roger.

Left-handers are crafty southpaws.
No one knows exactly where they come from,
but they do strange things in the clubhouse,
like reading books in front of their lockers.

Right-handers pitch until their arms fall off,
or until they can no longer make it out of the seventh inning
without assistance from a sub-species known as a relief pitcher.

Left-handers pitch into their early forties,
or until they are offered jobs in the broadcast booth.

Right-handers throw 95-mph fastballs
at disrespectful, plate-hugging batters,
the baseballs connecting with a painful thud,
their seams leaving tiny, red bite marks
on hitters’ barely-covered flesh.

Left-handers nibble around the plate,
Lulling batters to sleep,
luring umpires into expanded strike zones.

Right-handers storm off the mound
at the end of an inning, pumping their fists –
cursing,
spitting,
glaring.

Left-handers curlicue called strike threes
around the outside corner and walk off the field quietly,
their eyes focused on the path to the dugout
and nothing more.


Spitball: The Literary Baseball Magazine