Dead Armed Hurler Whose Stuff Was Not Live

Hi Everyone. I've been writing a lot of poetry lately, which is kind of a new thing for me. Sometimes I write about earlier times in my life, and when I do I often find myself thinking about baseball or sports just because that was such an essential part of my life from my earliest memories to about age 13 or so. Usually I try to lay off the sports metaphors and allusions because I want anyone reading to be able to understand most of it, but with this one I thought I'd just go all out and make one for the baseball nerds.

This one is dedicated to the 1996 Doe Run Dragons baseball team and everyone that had to watch us that year. Also to Willie McGee, a player I loved, and Pete Kozma, a player I loved to hate.

Dead Armed Hurler Whose Stuff Was Not Live

The path of a pitched baseball 
can be curv or sl
ing urv
narrow or a
cutt n
ing or k u arc's
ckl the f
ing bends a
the wind l
ding or drop
like a sick stomach
having just reached the top
of a rollercoaster ride that screams like a rocket
until the bottom falls out of it and comes to the most sudden

Instead of throwing the ball like any of that
I throw it right down the middle
as hard as I can
My ass is handed to me in front of an audience

I grunt when I throw because they asked me to
because if I don’t they’ll ask why I didn’t
because they thought it would add a couple miles per hour
to my cartoonishly slow and extremely hittable deliveries
The other kid grunts back as he slaps a loud smack
The crowd roars because our team is away and they are safe at home
We’re 13 years old, I sucked
I got roughed up on the usual
but our team had no reliable bullpen
so they left me in to soak up the remaining innings
until the 10-run rule arrived, the rule of mercy