The Bottom of Nine

Trailing by two in the bottom of nine,
A single, then double, stroked down the line,
On second and third they jostle about,
While eight and nine both swing and strike out.

Ace steps to the plate, set on a mission,
Wielding his bat with reckless precision,
Direct from the mound comes a red-stitched pearl,
Did he throw straight heat or spin up the curl?

Nary a twitch as it whizzes on by,
“Strike!” shouts the Umpire,
“Hey blue, check your eye!”
Not even close, ’bout a foot off the edge,
The Babe couldn’t hit that with a six-foot sledge.

Next comes a bender, left hung out to dry,
The crack of the bat, it’s a monstrous fly,
If it stays fair it’ll sail off in the night,
Instead, it drifts foul, a long and loud strike!

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