The game was tied in the bottom of nine
A runner on third and two out
In the dead still air a mosquito's whine
Was all you could hear, then a shout
"Do something Ben, murder the ball,
For crying out loud get a hit."
Ben strode to the plate to answer the call
The now restless fans knew this was it
He dug in his right foot then positioned his left
And tapped the plate twice with his bat
Then he pulled it back slowly as to measure its heft
And tensed his whole frame like a cat
The pitcher glared in, the Ump hunkered down
Then the ball on its way like a shot
Ben pulled the trigger, his body unwound
And the ball hit the bat with a "Thock"
This is the sum that the game's all about
This instant is not just a dream
The split second physics, a hit or an out?
Each player and fan poised to scream
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.