There’s a pitch I can’t lay off of,
No matter how hard I try.
It first comes in so low, but rises,
from my waist to my eyes.
A sweet thing, so easy and with hope,
but an empty swing and the word comes out – nope!
So many times I said to myself, smarten up there guy,
but that pitch is so disarming, so tricky and so sly.
It comes in true, so pretty, and so straight,
like a slice of apple pie, served up on a plate.
Now it only takes a second to decide whether or not,
to swing on this little beauty and give it a healthy knock.
Here it comes again and my eyes open wide,
now my face gets all flush, my excitement I cannot hide.
In an instant, I wring the bat with my hands,
my heart does pound like a drummer, playing for a band.
Come-on my little beauty, I mummer to myself,
I shift my shoulders, move my arms and stiffen at the belt.
I swing so hard in a blur I hear the laces fly by,
up and then across my chest as squint with my eyes.
High heat again has taken me down,
as I grit my teeth and force a frown.
So strike one it is,
as the ump raising his arm and points with his fist.
I dig in again into the box,
for this pitch will be for not.
I will not be fooled again,
as the pitcher smirks and grins.
Ok Rudy, I mummer to myself,
give me your best cheese, right across the belt.
He then winds up and kicks,
and delivers from his bag of tricks.
Oh man what a beauty, so white and easy to see.
What a slow rolling beauty, this hast to be for me!
Again the pitch does rise and greets me near the chin,
and again I swing with might, but only catch the wind.
I stand there in the box in total disbelief,
I fell for it again, it robbed me like a thief.
I quickly glance down at the catcher, while spitting out his chew,
with a little smile and giggle, he whispered … “ yep, that’s strike two!”
“Ok,ok,” I stammered, “enough is enough with this thing.”
I take the bat off my shoulder, raise it up, then grit my teeth again,
I’ll have to dig down and gather my strength, deep, deep within.
Come on Rudy, stop wasting time, give me that pitch again.
As the pitcher grinds his spikes and prepares to settle in.
Here’s the pitch, but I will not be fooled again,
neither chest high or even higher, whizzing by my chin.
So I watch the ball coming in, hot just like fire,
well I’ll be darn, it crosses the plate belt high, much to my ire,
as the game is over and both sides retire.
I stand there in the box shaking my head in disbelief,
as the umpire walks slowly to me and whispers…
“son, that was strike three.”