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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required At the ballgame a man with his hair in a bun, Was watching the children, and his wee, tiny son, Who came up to bat with the game on the line, He looked to his coach, who gave him a sign. So he did as was told and held out the bat, Across old home plate it was level and flat. The pitcher just smiled and threw at the plate Never expecting what came down to fate. The ball hit the bat with the slightest of pings And off went the batter with his feet full of springs. The catcher and pitcher went after the ball For the batter himself was tiny and small, They didn’t expect any hit from the boy Who had held out his bat so playfully coy. Neither one got the ball to throw it in time And the boy was called safe in the bottom of nine. The pitcher was flustered and made a mistake By throwing a ball for ball throwing’s sake. He threw away pitches, none down the pike Eleven straight balls and not even one strike . If this final pitch didn’t reach to its mark The tiny, wee boy who had ignited the spark Would amble right in and finish the game, With that winning run being scored in his name. The pitcher wiped the sweat from his brow And the hitter straight fooled him, and how He leveled his bat straight across home plate He stood there so calmly, just lying in wait. In the ball came with some furious speed Traveling just so, as the pitcher did need But what happened then could nobody see, The little, shy boy who was so tiny and wee Had stolen home plate and slid right under the strike Surprising the pitcher, his coach, and the like. The wee, tiny boy had won them the game To prove to himself that he was the same. He could play with the big boys, and match them with wit, Never again on the bench would he sit. The wee, tiny boy would go on to play, And joyously tell of that one glorious day.
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