You were the hitter.
I was the pitcher;
Going against you.
I never would strike you out;
You, always foul tipping or
I would throw a "ball",
Showing you my flexibility as a player.
Frustration set in and you tired of me;
You could not hit me
Nor would I strike you out.
"Relief!" you bellowed.
The next three pitchers showed you no mercy:
One!
Two!
Three strikes!
You're out!
Feeling beaten, down;
You called me to pitch again.
Looking at you,
I saw the determination in your eyes.
You had to hit someone.
And you still couldn't see it.
I can do anything I want to with this ball;
I love pitching.
And I love pitching to you!
Showing you my skills;
Any good mediocre pitcher can strike you out,
If they choose to.
I wanted to show you my endurance, my stamina.
I wanted to give you something you had never experienced before.
I thought that you would see me as unique, a keeper,
And as one hellafied pitcher...to you;
Insatiable;
Arm tireless;
Concentrating;
In a zone...for you.
I did not want you to get a hit;
Nor did I want to strike you out;
I just loved the exchange;
We owed it to one another,
To get to respect each others talents.
But you just had to conquer someone;
I noticed the look.
You just had to hit someone in your frustrations.
As, always, I saw what you needed.
So, I reared back, and smoked one waist high across the plate.
"Crack!" is all that I heard;
I did not have to see where it was headed.
I knew it was going over the wall,
With the fierceness in your swing.
I just stood on the mound and watched you smile with total glee;
You relishing in your unmerciful and dour accomplishment.
So, I did your job for you:
"Next!" I called out, with a smile;
And a tip of my hat.
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