by Miles Hart
The luscious green grass,
The hard brown dirt,
The paper white bases,
All create a baseball field.
The player up to bat so calm and cool under pressure
The game tied at 3 with two outs
and a runner on 3rd,
The game on the line.
The first pitch
comes right down the center of the plate,
Swing and a miss,
Pitch number two
a curve ball dropping two and half feet,
Pitch number three
a change up on the outside corner of the plate.
The ball is hit.
the ball travels through the air
as the crowd standstill,
You could hear a pin drop.
Going, Going, Gone!
They win the game.
The crowd storms the field in joy
of the win as they celebrate.
Miles Hart is a seventh-grader at Hawthorne Scholastic Academy in Chicago.
Published in Ballparks, Fans, Free Verse, The Game Itself | Link to this poem | 2 Comments