Coach Kangaroo slowly moves his way out to the mound,
the bill of his cap tilted down,
Tail, front paws on the ground, lift the huge back feet forward and repeat,
So slow it almost seems like he is going backwards.

"Listen son, your pitching" shaking his long thin snout side to side somberly,
scratching the fur on his chest, taking the baseball in both fore-paws,
rotating it seam over seam, licking it to see if it might taste good
"your pitching, ain't so good" squinting his eyes in the harsh afternoon sun.

"Sometimes you just got to stop and eat the roses"
"And if they don't digest immediately, regurgitate the roses and try again"
"You get my meaning?" asks Coach Kangaroo.

Max looks at him like he just peed on his leg, which he might have.
Coach Kangaroo hops off turning over his shoulder offering one last bit of wisdom
"Oh yeah, and watch out for the dingos"

Max, pitches, the spit on the ball giving his curve ball an extra half foot of drop.
The hitter misses the pitch, twisting so hard that he loses his balance and falls to a knee.
Max has his groove back, and a new pitch in his repertoire.