No Synonym for Catcher
He was our catcher, ten years old,
No bigger than a third grader.
His chest protector reached the ground
And he moved into odd positions
To frame the target, knees on the ground,
Or turned a little sideways
Opening and closing the mitt
Sometimes waiting till the last minute
To bring it out in front.
Our ace pitcher didn’t care.
His minor league pitcher daddy
Had taught him to hit spots
With a blazing fastball,
He was six feet tall,
A tremendous curve
He could throw in any count
And the second half of the season
The first knuckleball we had seen.
They had no signals.
The catcher could snag anything
And threw from a crouch like a man.
He had black hair and dark skin.
His people were from Indian country,
And he swam every day in the summer.
And he talked the trash you’d expect
From the son of raging alcoholics.
The little guy had a husky voice
And he chattered non-stop at the hitters.
He’d broken a tooth on the diving board
And had a replacement that he could
Pop out with his tongue
And he would do it on a big pitch
When the batter looked back
Or down at him and he smiled
That charismatic smile that
Would one day win all the women
In the offices on his sales route
And no one would have guessed
That he was already damaged then,
That there was a pitch coming
That he could not catch.a