The Hill
For my brother, on his fortieth birthday
Sweat drenched his jersey, and his stomach churned.
It wasn’t nerves — he knew that he had earned
His spot in the rotation. He was ill —
A bug so bad a man of lesser will
Would not have played. But he was forty-five
And for as long as he had been alive
He’d longed for this: October with the Phils.
Through decades in the league he’d honed his skills
To meet this moment: home, against the Rays,
The Series tied. Despite the nauseous haze,
He took the mound, and with him took the dreams
Of kids from Cape May’s shores to Carlisle’s streams.
At 10 p.m., a batter tapped the plate
(Delayed by rain, the game was starting late).
Our hero got the signal, wound, and hurled
A strike! The oldest pitcher in the World
Series that year began his epic quest
To ace his long career’s most grueling test.
Through cold and damp and misery maintaining
A steady pace, his ancient muscles straining,
He silenced Tampa Bay’s offensive power
With fastballs reaching eighty miles an hour
And change-ups barely lighting up the gun,
Allowing, through six innings, just one run.
Mid-seventh inning, things began to fall
Apart a bit, and Charlie made the call.
Our hero watched his teammates lose the lead
But kept the faith: the Fightin’s would succeed.
They did — and with the last out of the game,
The crowd commenced to chant our hero’s name.
Just four days hence he watched through joyful tears
As Brad Lidge closed it out. Engulfed by cheers,
With sons and all his teammates close around,
He sprinted from the dugout to the mound,
Where, trying hard and failing not to blubber,
That son of Sellersville dug out the rubber.
You who now stand in feebleness’s foyer,
Take comfort from this tale of Jamie Moyer:
Despite how close decrepitude appears
You might have five or six more decent years.
Coleman Glenn 