calling the shots, catcher is conduit between all, holds the

keys to everything, including the beer tent and the t-shirt 

truck. catcher sees all, surveys between the nosebleeds and 

the quiet possibility that forever lives inside the on-deck circle. 

catcher is asked to paint in leather between imaginary lines with 

the critic resting their chin upon the crown of catcher’s head. 

as reward for reaching the bigs, catcher gets to chase down the 

line without kneesavers knocking against their calves. catcher isn’t

paid enough. catcher’s hat never shows wear in postgame interviews: 

no pine tar, no sun fade. catcher is clean besides the places that the  

equipment prescribed failed to reach. catcher isn’t paid nearly enough. 

behind the plate, catcher is just another anyone, with neck protected 

by metal goat beard or weird plastic snood if catcher is still small. 

catcher calls for gatherings at the mound, calms the wild ones and sparks 

the rest with small words said into catcher’s all-absorbing mitt. catcher 

never gets to streak, is required to rest on no practiced rotation except 

how and when catcher’s body wears or wears down. catcher has to be 

kept down for reasons of pride, so catcher gets saddled with monikers, 

like yogi or pudge. and yet, at times, catcher hides their eyes, turns their 

head away, tempting us to run. but we don’t, because between each 

inning, catcher always shows us the future, if we even thought of 

running.

AVERY GREGURICH is a writer living and working in Marengo, Iowa. He was raised next to the Mississippi River, and has never strayed too far from it.