I feel something pool
in my stomach when
he steps to the plate.

His hat & his belt, 
his stance & his stare
all announce the gravity
of this moment at the plate.

He'll finally get to run -- 
a rarity in this game.

I lean on the chain links
next to all the dads,
letting them chatter,
knowing that he knows
I am there, watching
behind the hot cage of boys.

Well into the slow still arc
of the pitch, he knows.
Welled in my gut, a worry
that he'll miss, or worse,
that he'll be thrown out at first.

A ping of aluminum,
and a flash over
the dad who's pitching.

I gasp at my boy, 
delight in his hopeful speed. 



This one is years old. I've written about this subject, this child before : )