Geronimo At Short

After his surrender, Geronimo played baseball on the reservation.

He seems to disappear into the land
between the infield and the sweep of the grass.
Even the giant old trooper at the plate
has to look three times to find him.
Age has cut down his range.
Once, no line drive could escape his lunge.
His hands were where rallies and soldiers went to die.
He would play wildly out of position,
just to show them.
Spinning and shouting across the diamond
to kill the sure hit.
Now he must place himself well,
hiding in the dust,
stalking the vicious grounder.
He has stopped trying for balls
he knows he can’t get.
Just spits and curses his teammates.
Even with all the years that follow him
he never looks when he throws.
Never.
It is always on target, always where it needs to be.
He relies on other things – the crowd’s rustling or
the weight of the runner’s steps – to tell him
what to do next.

He is still dangerous at the plate.
When the mood is on him, he can out wait anyone.
With the count full, he will foul off eighteen pitches
then get the walk by not swinging
just to make the pitcher look bad.
His hits are always hard,
startling infielders or screaming into gaps.
On base he disappears again,
languid and silent, stealing without effort.
But when rage takes him,
he plays another game.
The anger makes him expect
the ball’s obeisance. Every pitch
supposed to do as he tells it.
He swings at bad throws, if he connects
the other team is trapped in disbelief
but mostly he jabs and misses,
betrayed by both slider and curve.
The more years pass the more
he becomes sullen and uninterested
in a game. But he still plays
and they are still afraid of him.
Walking him intentionally
rather than risk his rallying.

Then he takes the bat with him and,
standing at first, holds it like a rifle,
sighting the outfielders and
dreaming of days when.

(Published in Line Drives: 100 Poems on Baseball, Southern Illinois University Press, 2002)