Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Swinging Bunt

I
Drew Smyly is seven innings into a perfect game.
He’s thrown nothing but sinkers and curveballs.
It’s a day game at Wrigley and the ball melts into a swirl of white t-shirts,
Materializes in the catcher’s mitt,
Then says hello-goodbye to each of the infielders in turn
As another Dodger slides his bat back into the bat rack.
Drew Smyly is seven innings into a perfect game.
Drew Smyly is about to be tackled by his catcher.
II
Yan Gomes lands and keeps rolling, longer than he needs to,
Eventually settling on his hands and knees, head hanging,
Not remotely like girls who throw their hair
Before them over their heads to dry in the sun.
Smyly comes to rest with his weight on his pitching elbow, legs crossed,
Like Reclining Venus in pinstripes. He shakes his head and smiles, “My bad.” Read the rest of this entry »