The Batter Who Struck Out: A Poem
In the twilight’s golden glow,
Stood a batter, bat held low.
Dreams of glory in his heart,
He was eager for his game to start.
Crowds all around, the stadium packed,
Anticipation and tension were stacked.
The pitcher’s gaze, a steely stare,
Wind-up, throw, it cuts the air.
First pitch in, a blazing speed,
Eyes of fire, nerves to heed.
Swing and miss, a hollow sound,
Gasps and murmurs all around.
The second pitch, a wicked curve,
Hopes and doubts begin to swerve.
Swing and miss, another strike,
His confidence begins to spike.
Final pitch, a chance to save,
Fear and courage, both behave.
Eyes now focused, heartbeats loud,
Whispers and prayers in the crowd.
Pitcher’s arm, a flash, a blur,
In that instant, dreams confer.
Swing and miss, the echo fades,
Hopes like shadows and twilight shades.
Back to the bench, his head held high,
Silent stars adorn the sky.
In that moment, not defeat,
But the spirit to compete.
For every swing and every miss,
Teaches more than fleeting bliss,
In the game of life, no doubt,
Pride belongs to those struck out.
