He walks to the plate
Not an ounce of nerve or caution
The bat resting on his shoulder
As delicately as anyone else
He is different, and yet the same
But he is different.
The first pitch is low, outside
His eye is poised, watchful, ready
The second comes in
He flings outward, momentum shifting
and runs. Oh, does he run.
Others advance to the base, he runs.
He is indeed different.
He creeps off the bag, steadily
Taunting the pitcher with each move
He dances down the line and back again
The pitcher throws, and off he goes
Without sliding, he beats the throw
His face is stern, not yet satisfied
His duty is not yet finished
He continues to dance off the bag
His style is true, charismatic
The pitcher, still visibly bothered
Tosses wildly home, his concentration broken
The runner trots to third, his face still stern
He was not yet content
One base still lay untouched
He was different, but only by 90 feet
With each pitch he thrusts himself
Down the baseline he moves
Working his way back to third again.
After several throws, the catcher
Jumping to his feet after each
Decides to stay still this time.
And with a kick of the leg
The runner dashes homeward
The catcher, unprepared, is too late
The runner slides, the run scores.
His face reveals a grin,
For his task is complete.
He is no longer different than the rest
The run he scores wins the game,
And thus the only thing which now separates
Him from the rest: skill, and nothing but.