McDonald text Faith

Faith Is a Radical Master

by Walter McDonald

God bats on the side of the scrubs.

With a clean-up hitter like that, who needs

to worry about stealing home, a double squeeze,

cleat-pounding triples? If nothing else works,

take a walk, lean into the wicked pitch

careening inside at ninety miles an hour.

At bat, just get on base and pray the next nerd

doesn’t pop up. When someone’s already on, the coach

never calls me Mr. October, seldom signals Hit away.

If Johnson with the wicked curve owns the strike zone

or the ump, I’ll bunt. No crack of the bat,

no wildly cheered Bambino everyone loves.

Lay it down the line like the weakest kid in school,

disciple of the sacrifice. Some hour my time will come,

late in the game, and I’m on third, wheezing from the run

from first after a wild pitch, and Crazy Elmore

waving like a windmill by the third-base line.

Hands on my knees, I’ll watch the pitcher

lick two fingers, wipe them on his fancy pin stripes

and try to stare me dead. I’ll be almost dead,

gasping, wondering how I’ll wobble home if someone bunts

or dribbles a slow roller and the coach yells

Go! But there, there in the box is God,

who doesn’t pound home plate like an earthquake

but slowly points the bat like the Babe toward center field,

and all my family in the clouds go wild, all friends

I’ve loved and lost, even the four-eyed scrubs

In the dugout slugging each other and laughing,

tossing their gloves like wild hosannas, and why not –

it’s bottom of the ninth, two outs, a run behind

and a hall-of-fame fast baller on the mound,

but I’m on third and leaning home, and look who’s up.

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Walt McDonald. “Faith Is a Radical Master” from Faith Is a Radical Master.