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.)
One thought on “For Darrell Porter”
Damn. Tough to read, but glad I did. Still remember his confused head spinning back in forth after “we” lost Game 6. A 5 year old me cried and looked to my dad for an explanation what the heck just happened in those 10 minutes in B9 on 10-26-85. I think Darrell was more confused than the kindergarten me. Thanks