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 against the chain links
with the other dads,
letting them chatter,
knowing that he knows
I am there, watching
behind the hot cage of boys.

He steps to the plate, 
plants and grinds his cleats
in the white striped box. 
I feel something pool
deep in my stomach, worry
that he'll miss, or worse,
that he'll be thrown out at first.
But he sees the pitch’s arc
and he knows. He knows. 

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 : )