Previously published in the Winter 2017 edit of Spitball: The Literary Baseball Magazine

Pregame:

The waning amber sun

torches the sky above the Bronx.

A fire burns below;

sweltering bombs of white flame

engulf the city,

igniting a feverish blaze.

Not a drop of rain in sight.

Inning 1

The white flames scorch

the rafters of the city’s biggest cathedral and

embers nip at the feet of worshippers.

They stand,

their voices united in a throbbing hymn

for their savior, cloaked in white.

Lines of ash stain his robe.

 

Inning 3

Magic flows from his hands

as his every move

breathes life into the shadows.

The flames cannot touch him.

He’s invincible to their sting.

The cries grow louder.

He’s an inferno against the night sky.

Inning 9

A wild fire rages eating away at the cathedral.

The crowd of worshippers choke on the thick grey smoke.

Their breaths are short.

The savior rises again and white flames flicker around him

as the final sphere of platinum hurtles through the cloud of ash.

A single dewy crystal falls from his eyes.

Rain at last.