Clayton Kershaw, the Dodger on the mound.
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He of the high-wired high-winding hustle — chain lightning, a hit-preventing kick. He is strict.
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He’ll slow roll on you too. Watch out. He knows his every pitch.
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And when he messes up he sees why, and hell. He paces the green lake after that toss, fuming.
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The ball is his brother. He handles it with care and speaks with it in earnest. He makes quick work.
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He hits space: He throws inside a tight air pocket and the sphere makes a last-second drop. Strikeout.
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His teammates need to score. That’s all. That’s what.
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It’s a lot to do with breath. The man knows how to breathe. Also his wrist has a brain.
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He leans left and spins with a curl. He escapes the jam.
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A fat fastball with a capital F, and money in the bunk.
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He thought that a strike. He hopped at the call! A.J. better go and talk to him.
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At the end of the day he owns the neatest business in the meanest business out there.
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He hates to hand the ball over to his manager. Naturally.
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His name ends in W and he just earned another.
