The Final Out

Sitting above a seat of steel

I watch the sun as it spills

Through the clouds

To the ground

Shining on the pitcher’s mound.

Summer heat’s not half as bad

As years passed

When I were a lad.

Yet, they still sweat and wipe their brow.

With shirts untucked

And with some luck

Should head for shelter

With a third out.

Count them one

Count them all.

Count them nine to chase the ball.

There’s a pitch.

A swing.

A miss.

The bat cuts the air

With a wicked hiss.

Sit down and bring yet another

Batter to the plate

To swing and hack and take some cuts

To make contact

On a swinging bunt.

Pitcher and catcher

Both converge

On the ball as it bounces.

The batter runs

With strides so full

Just to reach the base

Before the throw

To be called “safe.”

It was not to be

As ball hits glove

The third out is called.

The game is at an end.

One team cheers

While the other one cries

But on the ground

There he lies.

The last out in a game of bat and ball

Tears streaming he begins to crawl

Away from the crowd

To hide in shame

For being the last out

In the Big Game.

As time moves on

Fade does the pain

But it replays itself

Time and again.

As each time I sit

On this cold steel seat

And look out on the field

Where the loser was me.

The sun has gone down

And the time has arrived

For me to finally say goodbye

To the field

Where took place that great bout

Where I became the final out.