Stepping up to the wooden made plate
Feet digging into the hard dirt
I set my stance as Babe Ruth would
Gripping the rubber handle of my trusted aluminum friend.

Staring daringly toward the pitcher
Of course any other day I would call friend
The duel of might is about to begin
My cat like eyes focus on the pitch.

The yellowish ball whizzes past my buckling knees
As my feet become pillars of granite
Holding tough, flexing my hands
I gaze anticipating what would be next.

Coming towards me in a curve
This I think is the pitch for me
I swing with muscle and ease
Vibrations run through my arms and shoulders.

Running as a greyhound in a race
I head for makeshift first base
Suddenly in my ear I hear shatters of glass
My baseball days have gone awry.

Looking around, each of us flew
In hopes against hope to not be caught
Truly this is my best home run
As I reach my own front door.

Amongst my steps in clumps
Are the results of my stance with my friend the bat
Stomach churning, rolling, tightening
I twist open the knob towards my fate.