With nimble hands, the pitcher takes the mound,
His motion smooth, a maestro of the game.
He winds and hurls, the ball a whistling sound,
A missile aimed at home with lethal aim.
The batter stands, a valiant knight of wood,
His stance unyielding, focused on the sphere.
He waits, his eyes transfixed, his mind a flood,
Anticipating the crack of bat on gear.
The ball arrives, a blur against the sky,
The bat connects, a thunderous applause.
The ball soars high, a bird about to fly,
Its journey ending with a soft caress on grass.
The fielders run, their steps like graceful dance,
In pursuit of the ball, their bodies sway.
They gather 'round, a symphony in trance,
As one they cheer, their hearts full of glee and play.
The crowd erupts, a chorus in full song,
Their cheers a symphony, a joyful blend.
Baseball weaves its magic, righting every wrong,
A sport beloved, enduring to the end.