Hands hold bat
unnaturally, left
snugged against knob, right
gripping handle above.
Stance still square to plate,
but left shoulder points
to mound and pitcher.
Head turns left, eyes watch
waiting for ball’s release.

Mind wanders in waiting,
wondering why the switch.
Life is left-handed, sinister,
a litany of accommodations.
Scissors digging into hand
pencil smudging meat of palm
ladle pouring soup backhanded
water fountaining from knobs on right
watch stems sprouting at 3 p.m.

Back to game and pitch
ball in flight toward plate
wait … swing … miss.
Mist blows across field
faceless pitcher fading away
hands suddenly empty no bat.
Eyes open to darkened room
head raises from dampened pillow
right hand presses button: 5:15.

Yesterday was Opening Day. Coincidence?
Who was pitching? Why no face?
What happened to my teammates?
Why a strike and not a hit?
Why the switch?

When I identify myself, I
give my name
tell my age
check my gender
say married
circle Caucasian
note Lutheran.
But no one ever asks
and I never answer,
“Left-handed.”

Then I wonder how my life
would feel if I were not ….
Not a man, but a woman.
Not a Christian, but a Buddhist.
Not white, but black.
Not straight, but gay.
Not a leftie, but a rightie.

Could I handle the switch?
What accommodations would I make?
Would I still be myself, know myself?

Would you still recognize me,
know me,
love me?

Cut the red seams
peel off the bleached hide
unwind the endless yarn
reveal the resilient center.

I hold the naked, diminished sphere
gently with my fingers
reach back and toss it to you.

God, catch me, please.

David M. Frye
April 7, 2009
Denton, Neb.