Now batting, number two,
Pine tar rolls on just like glue.
Measured steps, taking time.
To the plate, he starts the climb.

Back foot digs into the dirt,
He’s ready now; his eyes alert.
Just a slight tip-o-th’ cap,
His bat upon the plate does tap.

He turns his head just to see,
The score is set at four to three.
Pitcher stares, then gets set,
Pressure’s breath costs him sweat.

Teammates stand each on a base,
Stage is set to take his place.
All the Bronx is on their feet,
He hardly feels the intense heat.

Wind up starts, then the throw.
His light brown eyes start to glow.
Fastball low, just outside,
Bat and ball, timed, collide.

Time is stopped. The air is still
Holding breath amid the thrill.
Millions watch in revered awe
They blink, unsure of what they saw.

Eyes wide, hearts-a-beating
Forty and somehow still competing,
Drives the ball hard to second,
More excitement one can’t reckon.

Ball scoots under glove,
This is what a dream’s made of.
The crowd erupts; a joyful cheer.
The perfect close to Jeter’s career.