My last at bat of the year,

It has to be good,

A lucky stroke of the tar rag,

Secures my wood.

Get a comfortable grip,

My cleats dig through the dirt.

The pitch has to be waist high,

Or at the letters on my shirt.

The pitch is delivered,

Like a bolt from Zeus,

My arm muscles tighten,

and my power breaks loose.

A crack of the bat,

I hit the pitch,

And saw the cover drop in front of me,

The ball: stripped and unstitched.

I put my head down,

and with my might, start to run,

My coach yelled, "STOP!!!"

But would for none.

"Maybe a home run!" is what I reckon.

My foot touches first,

I blaze toward second.

As I look at the crowd,

Touch home plate, and grab a towel,

My coach gently whispers, handing me my bat,

"It was a foul."