The slugger digs in at the plate,
His eyes transfixed upon his prey;
Determination in his brow,
Anticipation rules the day.

The moments pass before he sees
A globe of white has taken flight –
Its rate of speed a daunting thing,
And yet, it stays within his sight.

With lightning streaking toward the plate,
His thunder steady in his hands,
He swings…and with a mighty “CRACK!”
The ball departs for distant lands.

He runs the bases, jubilant
As friends and neighbors shout his name;
The slugger shares his joy with all
Who came to see his first ball game.

© 2004 by Robert E. Blackwell