Baseball

Baseball

I just came heard this poem yesterday (opening day) and I love it.

Baseball

John Updike, 1932-2009

It looks easy from a distance,

easy and lazy, even,

until you stand up to the plate

and see the fastball sailing inside,

an inch from your chin,

or circle in the outfield

straining to get a bead

on a small black dot

a city block or more high,

a dark star that could fall

on your head like a leaden meteor.

The grass, the dirt, the deadly hops

between your feet and overeager glove:

football can be learned,

and basketball finessed, but

there is no hiding from baseball

the fact that some are chosen

and some are not – those whose mitts

feel too left-handed,

who are scared at third base

of the pulled line drive,

and at first base are scared

of the shortstop’s wild throw

that stretches you out like a gutted deer.

There is nowhere to hide when the ball’s

spotlight swivels your way,

and the chatter around you falls still,

and the mothers on the sidelines,

your own among them, hold their breaths,

and you whiff on a terrible pitch

or in the infield achieve

something with the ball so

ridiculous you blush for years.

It’s easy to do. Baseball was

invented in America, where beneath

the good cheer and sly jazz the chance

of failure is everybody’s right,

beginning with baseball.