Published: Baseball Almanac (07-01-2000)

I can feel the tension building,
Our team's down by three -
Bases are loaded, it's in the ninth inning,
The batter stands there like a tree.
His steady eyes pierce the man on the mound,
Fierce concentration cuts all of the sound.
He plants his feet, sure of his might,
His grip on the bat, knuckles white.
He takes the first strike, high inside corner,
The second pitch flew - a wicked chin burner.
He could feel the wind but never flinched,
The next curved towards his knees,
They moved not an inch.
A hysterical crowd now wants to see blood -
The noise drowns his brain
Like a powerful flood.
His gut says the pitcher's fast ball will end it,
And when it comes, he'll know where to send it.
His anger whipped the bat around -
A deafening crack, right to the mound.
But it was up and away,
A four run homer that saved the day!

The Batter by Kenneth C. Hoffman © 2000