The Bottom of the Ninth

January 4, 2012
The smell of the leather,
The heat of the sun,
Just one more out, and then they’ve won.
You stand in the box,
With a bat in your hands,
The pitcher winds up,
And you get in your stance.
He lets go of the ball,
It goes straight at the mitt,
You swing round the bat,
It connects, it’s a hit!

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