I saw, once,
when Nolan Ryan's fastball
came right back at him
and, wiping his bloody face on his stained white uniform
he stood immortal, a statued legend,
and continued to win the game.

At most, the skin on my ankle
will grow purple-
the embarrasment of bruised pride,
as my curve ball returns
effeciently
spreading my body under a thin layer of mound dust.
And I, in agony, admit to myself that
my relief pitcher might actually
hold their lead to seven.