A great baseball poem from my favorite professor at Georgia State AND the poet laureate of Georgia.

Sign for My Father, Who Stressed the Bunt

BY DAVID BOTTOMS

On the rough diamond,

the hand-cut field below the dog lot and barn,

we rehearsed the strict technique

of bunting. I watched from the infield,

the mound, the backstop

as your left hand climbed the bat, your legs

and shoulders squared toward the pitcher.

You could drop it like a seed

down either base line. I admired your style,

but not enough to take my eyes off the bank

that served as our center-field fence.

 

Years passed, three leagues of organized ball,

no few lives. I could homer

into the left-field lot of Carmichael Motors,

and still you stressed the same technique,

the crouch and spring, the lead arm absorbing

just enough impact. That whole tiresome pitch

about basics never changing,

and I never learned what you were laying down.

 

Like a hand brushed across the bill of a cap,

let this be the sign

I’m getting a grip on the sacrifice.