GENTLE MAN, THE

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70 70 It was the one season He’d dreamed of his entire life, An eternal summer when the ball Floated towards home plate As big as a grapefruit. He squarely planted his feet, Pointed his bat skyward And waited for the chance To launch another long drive Beyond the outfield fence, Where fans gathered to catch History in their hands. The pitcher’s deliberate pace Did nothing to unnerve him; He knew the routine by now— How not even a patron saint Wanted his name left to rot In the sacred record book For future generations to read, As the poor, unfortunate soul Who made this moment possible. He stepped out of the box, Knocked some dirt from his spikes, Adjusted the cap that bore The name of the city he loved And heard his father’s voice, Coaxing him to relax, Take a deep breath: Remember, this is just a game Children play for fun. 71 And then came the wind-up. . . One arm twisting overhead, The release which sent the sphere Rapidly spinning for home. Later, he swore he saw Each minute revolution Before the crack of bat to ball— And the great row of faces, Straining to follow the flight One man made in early October, On a hazy Sunday afternoon, When he dared to chase Time and alter space. —for Mark McGwire ...