A Baseball Poem

The curve spins pure as it crashes through the zone.

Oh and one.


Quickpick!

The hands have yet to set.


One three, one four is surely not a sure thing,

but up by one - a lone run - no homerun coming from the man with the broken hamate bone.

The hold is one, two, three. The pitch a ball.


Just a bit outside.

He tried the corner and missed.


One and one, the evening sun setting.

Betting he's going the pitch-out is on.

The runner is jetting, the throw on the bag.

The left hand a decoy avoiding the tag.

Safe and then out, the surface too fast.

The Turface as ice oversliding the bag.


Two outs in the inning the count two and one.

The man in the stands must explain to his son.

The war that's within the short sixty foot space

The head-games, the timing, the first to two race.


The pitch tumbles in barely nicking the corner.

The catcher is sticking. The umpire orders

a new ball in play, the last darted down

But still was a strike and the count's even now


The catcher is thinking, the batter the same -

A heater thrown high will finish the game.

Everyone's waiting as heat's fired in.

One hundred and one buzzes under the chin.


The count is now full, it is anyone's battle.

The crowd on their feet make the stadium rattle.

The pitch is a change. The batter doth lunge.

But his hands remain back to deliver the punch.


The ball is well struck, it's ascent parabolic.

He walks out the box while his teammates all frolic.

The party's at home, and tonight will be crazy.

'Cause coming up next is our best hitter Casey.

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