Friday—
       one wrong pitch
       and suddenly I’m
       parked in the dugout,
       hat backwards,

       chewing on sunflower seeds and my own bad luck.

Since then—
      no signs from the third-base coach,

      no chance to step back into the batter’s box.

Even the crowd noise feels dim without you—
         the way you light up the diamond
         without even trying,

         that easy rhythm when we’re in sync.

Feels like I’m waiting
      for the manager’s nod,

      a quiet “you’re up”… so I can swing again.

You’ve got the lineup card,
       and my name’s not on it—
       just me, deep in foul territory
       lobbing you box scores,
       home run alerts,
       and the occasional

       “this song made me think of you”.

I get it—
      sometimes the team
      needs to shake up the order.

But I’m keeping my glove warm,
    keeping my stance loose,
    because sooner or later,
    you’re gonna glance my way
    and remember
    exactly who you want

    standing in scoring position.