It was the bottom of the ninth and neither side was winning.
Each member of the pent-up crowd was anxious for the inning.
The batter smiled smugly as he stepped up to the plate.
His eyes were fierce and focused and his fingers burned with hate.
He doffed his dusty baseball hat and gripped his trusty bat
And then with poise and confidence he cleared his throat and spat.
The pitcher's brow was sweaty as he dug into the mound
And then he threw a slider which then sank and struck the ground.
Then came the harsh resounding cry which ruled it a ball;
Let there be no mistaking that it deeply thrilled us all.
The seasoned pitcher threw the next ball just above the plate
And number seven swung so mightily – but just too late.
But as each patron held their breath and perched upon their seat
There came the crack of bat and ball and the thud of running feet.
A heartfelt cheer then shook the stands as seven ran to first.
While ten thousand hands applauded, his foes began to curse.
He thundered on towards second – and then he ran to third.
He was a bolt of lightning and the fans a startled herd.
The cannonball of leather he had smashed began to fall
And finally it smacked into the sand across the wall.
With a final score of five to four the flyball won the game.
The winning team went wild - and the conquered bowed in shame.