Box-score Bramblings
Did you see that?!
What a cannon!
Catchers are the rock of the team.
Why?
Isn't it made apparent?
These crouchers save the errant,
calling for two and four seam.
They are an integral part
of every ball that’s throne,
protecting the little house,
sacrificing with their bones.
For sensitive mounders
they're a gentle mental nudger.
Not always rapid runners,
they are diggers, faithful trudgers.
Great grand muscles to steal the stolen.
Hits hammered hard,
knees that are swollen.
But, wait!
A major presence
on the box-score
is the number three stat.
Who’s on first?
with put-out thirst
and a welcome mat?
Part of every transaction,
the smiling meet-and-greeter,
diplomat of diamonds,
a splitting wild-ball-reader.
Pardon me,
but What
has equal significance, two.
Pickoffs and pickles,
managing the middle.
There'd be trouble
without plays double
from you.
You can’t leave out
6 or 5 either.
They are the webbing
in the glove of infielders.
Multiple miracles
skillfully built.
They take the brunt
with spectacular stunts
and opponent's rallies are killt.
Can’t say that they
are the only way.
For what can catch flies
but a spider?
The last defense
before the fence,
in case batters
can splatter that slider.
Aniticipaters,
They’re patient waiters
lithe legs that make them speedy.
Prefectories of trajectories,
stealing glory,
they are greedy.
Those who run fast and sacrifice all,
quickly rise
and release to the skies
the hurried and hopeful long ball.
Though I croon and I whine
for numbers 2 through to 9,
I’ll repeat the same old cliche.
Without number 1,
can’t get any of it done,
It’s all pitching
at the end of the day.