[Deer Park, August 27,
2009]
“That damn trico slid sidways one sixteenth
of a European centimeter
which is a vastly easier system
to use for unmathematical minds
than the one American cling to stubbornly
for reasons that boil down to fear of change,”
the lanky slugger proclaimed with growls
clearly unhappy with fly performance.
“Salmonids won’t move that far from their lanes,”
he added, glaring at me and the world
his legendary focus on display
here as in Fenway or the tight cockpit
of a Marine fighter, Thumping Teddy
always pushing his own limits, nature’s
a pitcher’s curves, anyone, anything
caught in the light of his attention
his famously narrow tolerances
his own standards regarding excellence.
“Okay if I cast now?” I ask mentor
Ted Williams, who shakes his head and stands
Rigid as Pompey’s unfortunates.
“Go ahead if that thing you do you call
casting, but between us men, son, your skill
is in sad and pressing need of a coach
willing to start at zero and build you
to something at peak that will fall far short
of low average mediocrity.”