When you bounded into the pitcher’s arms
It now seems too obvious an ascension
Of a man who brushed his burst fingers
Against the endurable
Only when he was ashamed.

In the beery afterglow
Your words were as pat as
You longed to be,
Your words so unlike your swing —
That lunging, halting, hoping
Motel Gideon’s Bible of a swing.

You can do this, we know,
This hitting, catching, running.
But it’s the after —
The plenteous and undetailed after,
The quiet after —
To which you’ll always belong.

(This piece originally appeared at FanGraphs. It has since been revised and made even worse, probably.)