Pop Foul Poem by William Kruse

Too stunned to run, I watched the ball pop
straight up and seem to stop.
The irksome noises of the fans
were muffled in that timeless span.
The ball just hung there at it's zenith,
unaware of those beneath it and then,
as if to break it's spell,
smack into his mitt it fell.
I knew that I had let them down:
my coach, my team, my folks. Somehow,
a little bit of myself died, to know I hadn't even tried.