Race Against Death

Race Against Death
© Surazeus
2018 01 08

I savor joy of stepping to home plate
while sun-glowing wind breezes through my hair,
twirling the sturdy oak-wood baseball bat,
then gripping it with both determined hands
to rest it on my shoulder as I gaze
boldly to survey the broad field of play.

I focus my attention on the ball,
and scrutinize the stoic poker face
of the pitcher who studies to deceive
my eager plan to whack it hard and high
through misdirection of his ballet twirl
when he hurls the ball as I calculate.

How sweet the moment when my controlled swing,
curving down, then up at just the right angle,
whacks the baseball to soar high among clouds
on graceful arch of triumph toward the sky
where birds are startled when it whizzes past,
far enough past the outfielders who stumble.

At sharp resounding crack of wood on leather
I twirl the bat and launch my leaping race
swift toward the secure fortress of first base,
like mad Achilles racing past the tortoise
beyond each halfway point of measured space,
before the catcher hurls it to the baseman.

With wild exhilirating joy I breathe
strong gusting spirit of the universe
that thrills to surge electric energy
in potent motion of athletic pride
through elegant action of my lithe limbs
when I outrace the grim judgment of death.

With beating heart on second base I wait
while pitcher of the opposition throws
the baseball of competition to strike
my colleague from the roster of achievement,
then when they whack the ball to outerspace
I race around perimeter of hope.

While enemies who try to crush my soul
throw the small white ball of victorious gain
to tag me out while I run toward third base
I race against death of weakening loss
and fly swift on pedestal wings of Hermes
to slide with glorious hope straight at home base.

One second faster than the zinging ball
I touch home base with fierce aggressive step,
and, when the umpire points up to the sky
and twirls his index finger to declare
that I have scored home run of victory,
I whoop like David who has slain Goliath.

The joy of celebrating with my team
the goal I scored with skilled speed and finesse
suffuses my body with flushing thrill
that I have conquered death for one more hour,
having faced judge and executioner,
by channeling the surge of lust for life.

Some day in the future, when I grow old,
and scored a thousand goals in game of life,
I will swing wrong and miss the ball of wealth,
and Death, who stands on pitching mound of time,
will strike me out, and I will lose the game,
but today I savor the joy of life.