We Should Have Been Used to It

The never ending cycle (arrive at the game, play without heart,
and lose a piece of ourselves in the dust.)
The cycle, a whirlpool, sucking our spirits down.
It was the final game, in a place with land so flat
the grasses rise to the wind, hoping to be blown away.
 
I'm sure we looked like monkeys in a metropolis,
with out coach arriving too late to care
and our only warm-up: throwing ten feet apart.
The azure sky blurred with the barns and the farmland,
the lingering scent of horse manure with every breeze
as the pitcher with her pinwheel motion began the inning.
 
They were scattered in the field,
clad in their Ford-sponsored black jerseys
with their impenetrabe defense that mirrored the tough claims
Ford makes with their trucks.
Top of the third, 4 to 13 black team,
I sauntered up to the plate, dug my feet into the worn batter's box
and waited. The first, a low strike, the next, a ball.
The ball produced its metallic song
as my bat attacked a small pine tree with the next pitch.
 
As I turned towards second, I was reprimanded
for watching as the ball sunk below the right fielder's glove.
I rounded the bases like the often banned softball cheer:
"She'll be coming around the bases kicking dirt in all your faces,"
the gravel flipping up from beneath my cleats.
I maddashed to the plate it all began,
with high-fives screeching to an unbelieving heart.
 
When the sixth inning came to a close,
and the scoreboard flashed our loss
against the dusky sky,
I was the only one of the deep purple Royals team,
willing to hold her head high.