A Baseball Poem: Grand Larceny

The greatest crimes in America have occurred in broad daylight; in front of witnesses; on grassy fields, in baseball stadiums. 

When given the right perspective, you can see the game in the reflection of the world trapped in the bead of sweat running down the pitcher's neck. –

That's what Rickey is looking at right now. His whole plan hinges on that bead of sweat.

At first, where Rickey had walked to, he spent most of his time chatting up one of the marks he was planning to rob. Their conversation was about anything but the impending theft. Friendly opponents shared a time out's passing.

Two old men had planned this job before Rickey’s trot to first. 

He worked for them. Rickey stole bases for them.

The scheme was communicated through seemingly random fluttering of their bent fingers around tanned leather faces and belt-punishing bellies. Old men clapped and spat in agreement.

Rickey told them, I'm in, with a hand to his cap. 

Another partner in this crime would put the plan into action from home.

Everyone spat again in approval.

Chit-chat on the field fell quietly to the chalk surrounding the fat, white pillow that is first base. Ninety feet away, there was another bag just like this one, guarded by the second baseman.

When he stepped away, Rickey was supposed to steal that base. 

One of the three bulbous boys-in-blue told everyone, "Play ball!"

The plan went from the minds of capos to the shoulders of soldiers and the spin of a baseball. 

The pitcher turned his back on Rickey. A mistake he'd regret. 

The air thickened with anticipation. The game was back on. He had work to get done.

Rickey had a job to pull—soon. 

The whole stadium held its breath.

When he got to the meeting, a coach gave Rickey the inside scoop. Watch the back of that meathead's neck. He spat towards the mound. 

He throws a slider; he'll drop his right shoulder. Yer buddy'll swing away, an' we're hopin' for a wild pitch. 

He clapped his truck driver-size hands, nodded, then spat his punctuation. He never spoke a word.

An accomplice taps that he's ready on the freshly swept homeplate and digs in.

That captured reflection of the ballgame is still hangs just above the fourteen-carat clasp keeping the name of the pitcher’s girlfriend fresh on his mind.

Rickey’s looking for one bad decision from homeplate. Ninety feet away, the catcher called his pitch.

Throw a slider.and nobody heard a word. Except the pitcher –and Rickey. 

That bead of sweat starts riding the jewelry-slide on his neck, towards his right arm! 

Rickey’s vision explodes white– the color of the bag he’s sprinting to grab—as intent becomes act with the firing of pistons in his legs. He is alone for just an eye blink before anyone figures out–

He’s running. He'll be at second in a handful of heartbeats. He’s counting his breaths, too. An old coach had told him to. That's why he did it.

"If you take more than four breaths before you slide, you'll get caught. You need more than four breaths, you're a slow, fat bastard."

Rickey is not a slow, fat bastard. BREATHE! His nostrils flare.

The catcher doesn’t play his part. He gloves the slider with ease and throws hoping Rickey gets caught. 

The pistons of his legs retract. They fire. POW! He springs to the bag. His arms stretch to grab it. The second baseman shows up too late. Rickey’s hands are on the prize. Before anyone arrives.

The ball shows up late too. Rickey’s too fast.

A cloud of burnt orange dust surrounds the crime scene. Rickey is invisible. The lone witness to the crime let's everyone know the bag is, "Safe!" in Rickey’s arms. 

The marks played their part. His teammate stands at home, with only one strike on his record. Everyone claps their approval for the crime in broad daylight.

Rickey stands up—Master Thief...still at large.