Here comes ol' coach, waddling out
to the mound. I stand, flipping the
rosin bag like a coin
"You ain't suppost to be tossing battin' practice,
 
son

That last one was right'n his
wheelhouse
Put some movement on it
Change your speeds
And for cryin' out loud,
get it out of the meat of the plate
Paint the corners,

boy

Paint the corners
Give him jus' enough to like it,
but not enough to connect
Then, when he lies in bed tonight,
after the hundred 'n eighteenth
time he's replayed it in his head,
then he sees it for what it is
And he'll shake his head in wonder
and jus' chuckle
'Coz what else can he do?"

"Paint the corners, boy"

And back he goes
So I bear down
I move that sphere out closer to the
tips of my fingers
And I dig my pad into those
hard red threads
And I let go with a biting
twelve-six curve that kicks up
dirt four feet in front of the plate

Out plods ol' coach,
 . . . head wagging
 . . . hand outstretched
"At least give 'em somethin' to swing at,

son

You gotta give 'em somethin'"