Running backwards,
Down the long grass–
He did not see
The screaming red truck.
He did not hear
Its onrushing approach.
He did not know
Of the quick rolling death in waiting.
Steady, steady…
Watch it now,
Watch it right into your glove.
Just like the coach says,
“Watch the ball, Davey-boy,
Watch it right into your glove…”
Backing up,
Into the street now,
Not watching, waiting.
He felt the first soft kiss of the ball in his glove;
He felt the first soft kiss of the steel on his legs;
He felt the bite of the grille when his feet
Left the ground, beyond his control,
Not willing this flight, but not yet unwilling;
Still concentrating on the feel of
Ball-in-Glove, of not letting go, of
Success.
As the first sense of failure, of not-rightness
creeps up from the body which is no longer his;
As the first uncertainties of existance
rose into his being;
He did not hear
The shocked silence;
He did not see
The broken faces;
He did not feel
The tears of grief;
Running down the long grasses.