Four Bagger

He feels it, then hears the loud crack of the hit
The connection so hard that it makes the bat split
Turn right while assessing the facts of the ball
A hairline determines home run or the wall

He’s rounding to second, no need for a coach
He can tell by the screams from the good home town folks
The ball’s in the air and it’s still up for grabs
Third base coach, a windmill of homeward bound stabs

He’s running to third now, the shortstop backs up
The coach yelling ‘do it’ he’s got the thumbs up
Home plate is a scramble, he knows he’ll be close
He knows it comes down to who wants it the most

His mind is a blur as he gives it his all
Home plate’s his whole focus, don’t think of the ball
A face full of dirt and a chin on home plate
And a cheer from his pals as the ump yells ‘he’s safe’

This poem was written/submitted by GrannyDeepSea.