Fastball

Up to bat, again, While the bleacher-filled crowd looks on They know my stats My 'swing for the fences' stance How I eye each pitch Dig in deep, feet planted Shoulders squared... The hits and misses logged On a scorecard, for all to see The opponent, hurling From his mound The roar of the fans Deafening, in their collective support Of wanting me to get on base They know my uniformed number Proudly worn with my name stitched Across my bruised back They clap, they urge me on I take the pitch, a heavy throw And swing with might From deep within my aging muscles Unwilling to be 'caught looking' And horribly strike out In the bottom of the ninth