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

by John W. Knight

Other poems of JOHN W. KNIGHT (2)

Comments (2)

Your explanation is exactly the way I have always felt and I dare to say that it so summarizes the way all real poets feel. It is unfortunate that many a would-be poet on this site is under the misconception that poetry is a vehicle for whining about all the failed attempts at bonding that lie strewn along the abject path to adulthood. It is interesting to find those who discover subjects which broaden their life experiences. In my poem ‘Brush Strokes’ that is what I tried to express. Adeline
I like this. Most poets, or writers in general have a reason why they write poetry. I think it is nice how you wrote on poem on your reason. Also, it is nice how you wrote that you write in order to brings others to certain situations they may not have recognized.