Sinewy Sensation

I took a piping hot shower today.
It was so amazing.
Made my neck and hands almost feel numb with relaxation.
Amazing what my body longs for
And what my mind longs for
My body - particularly my legs
Would love nothing more than lay
In my oh-so-comfortable bed
Until it just isn't that comfortable
I feel the chilly cover,
With an air conditioned fan blowing on it
And it makes the sticky, stuffy, balmy air
In my hallways, kitchen, and bathroom
Seem that much more oppressive.
Yet, with a 4-inch barrier of brick and concrete
My room stays dark, cool, and perfect.
When I lay down, I feel my legs sigh in relief
Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
My calves relax
My calused feet flip upwards
And my head feels heavy.
I use one of the two mental devices I employ
To fall asleep.

The first, I am on a golf course
Cazenovia in South Buffalo, almost always
And there is no one ahead of us, or behind us.
And I stand on the first tee
Leaning on a driver
And I picture the perfect shot I am about to hit.
(Picture-in-picture, because I am trying to dream.)
I address the ball
Sitting atop a beaten up white tee
And have my white Wilson glove on
And my old Lancer driver.
I'm wearing Khakis and a baby blue polo.
I then I rear back
And let all my might go into the white ball
BOOM
As I recoil, I feel the rush that comes
When releasing that much energy
And the sinew in my shoulders
It stretches, aches, and tingles
All at once.
I had been holding my breath
And so I almost gasp out
And immediately hear my heart catch up.
My knuckles feel like rusty hinges
From gripping the club so tightly.
And then I raise my head skyward
Trying not to miss a minute
And there, as if by cannon,
Goes my little white ball,
Straight as straight can be
Perfectly lost in the twilight sun.
I watch the entire shot frozen
Loosening my grip ever so slightly,
And then begin the leisurely walk to hit my approach.
(I then fall asleep.)

Second, I am standing on a pitcher's mound
I am almost always about 15 years old.
A young man steps into the batter's box
He is no match for me, but about my age.
My eyes turn black
My pupils widen drastically
I stare into the catcher's mitt
No, I stare through it.
My glove
My Easton yellow-leather glove
Is perched in the perfect position
Right in front of my face
And I give my best Andy Pettitte impression.
The look I give is truly one of undaunted determination
Of sheer "I will fucking destroy you."
Of cool rage, or controlled anger
All in one.
I am skilled, powerful, and intimidating.
I will throw this ball so hard
That you couldn't even hit it with your metal stick.
That's what this is about.
I will dominate you, young man.
And I will win.
So, I stand there, and see a hand pop down
In between the catcher's legs
A number two
I nod my head no.
I want number one.
He instinctually knows what I want
A single finger is shown.
I nod yes
And the dance begins
Left foot back
As both hands come over my head
Gripping the ball in my glove
My eyes, not even for an instant
Do not leave the steel gaze
of that catcher's mitt.
Weight shifts to left foot
So I can rotate the right on the rubber
And then
Forward motion
Time for BOOM
Left leg snaps up from behind
Knee is raised
Arms come to my chest
And then the hands "break":
Left one reach towards home plate
Right one reaches out to second base
As my right leg bends slightly
Starting my decent
And ensuring that the explosion will occur.
This is the no-turning-back point.
My head tilts up and to the left
To get out of the way of my right arm
Which is about to hurl something fierce.
Then, with a drastic stomping of my left leg forward
And half a second of my right arm barreling through,
I feel that same sinewy sensation
Ache, tingling, and rush
The heart catches up
And there disappears my white ball again
Except this one
I can hear hisssssssss with spin
The young man on the receiving end
Takes a half-hearted swing
And misses by a mile.
Strike one.
Two more to go.
I fall asleep.