I am Ethan Zucker, pitcher of the Braves,
son of a New Yorker and a Bostonian.
I have stood high on the hill in heavy pressure,
looking at the height of the heralded crowd.
I have used the mighty mound to mystify them, with a magnificent miraculous shutout.
How hard had I hurled the heated sphere,
you ask with a heightened curiosity?
I blazed the ball by the batter’s blinking eye,
bypassing the clock banked at 72 miles per hour.
The crowd cheered as the catcher clutched the ball,
with the calculated cognizance of Piazza.
I had worked my magic,
mystifyingly making the mark.
The game was gone won by me,
gifted to the glorious team.
I persevered with this penchant for pitching,
pausing only to partake in the pull of the people.
This blazing art is in my blood,
bleeding through my veins at the speed of a bullet.
Where does this willful warrior come from,
whisking away to the loud whisper of the ball.
I have come from the Boston bred birth of her,
balancing the love of baseball in red.
Guided by my father and our grasping love,
of the gigantic men in blue and orange.
Am I smart enough to succeed,
at this soaring sweet game?
I will tell you, the total talent I have,
tracking through the field of my teenaged body.
Everything solidified in my edging muscles, easily taking the element over the plate.
I will graduate on to college making the grade, to gifted athletics others gazing at my grasp
Of the gilded orb and guiding me, gallantly into the glorious game.
Baseball is my past, my perfection. It will parlay me into my predetermined future.
Watch out you willful players,
for I in my wisdom will conquer you all.