A Poem Of Baseball Panic

P.G. Barnett
Sep 17 · 3 min read

When I was but a wee small boy,
Before I’d learnt to bat,
I played outfield with little joy,
Outfield’s not where it’s at.
They all did say,
They’d let me play,
But I must never fail,
To stop the ball,
Not let it fall,
O’r fence it must not sail.
So play I did and I grew bored,
For no one ever hit,
A ball which o’r my head did soar,
That I could run and get.
Then one fine day a boy I know,
Stepped up and called his bat,
His finger he did point to show,
Where ball was going at.
And smacked the ball he did that day,
It rose into the air,
But on dead feet I chose to stay,
I really didn’t care.
I guessed the ball would too fall short,
As many had before,
In terror I gave a gloried snort,
When over fence it soared.
Then everyone they yelled that day,
I’d ruined the game you see,
I’d let the ball go out of play,
Now all was left to me.
I climbed the fence to get the ball,
My grappling skills astute,
I quickly scrambled up the wall,
And then I saw the brute.
His head was large his eyes they glowed,
He raised his head and stared,
On grass which seemed just freshly mowed,
Our ball it rested there.
My chances now seemed slim to none,
The brute he challenged me,
To jump into the yard and run,
Then fetch the ball and flee.
I knew my death would surely come,
If I leapt down and ran,
The brute would bite and chew me numb,
I had no other plan.
My friends they yelled to hurry up,
No one could play that day,
Until I beat this brutish pup,
And with the ball came way.
I tried to swallow, I could not breathe,
This brute he seemed to smile,
His eyes they twinkled, he showed his teeth,
I shook and swallowed bile.
I then took courage and down I leapt,
As quick as I could master,
The brute he moved to intercept,
The brute was so much faster.
He knocked me down with open mouth,
His paws upon my chest,
Survival chances just went south,
The brute would do his best.
His bite against my throat I braced,
I closed my eyes in fear,
And then the brute he licked my face,
And slobbered in my ear.
I giggled and he licked again,
Then nudged me with his nose,
I scratched the fur where a collar had been,
In seconds we were close.
The yells of friends from field beyond,
Reminded why I came,
I lobbed the ball we formed a bond,
This brute and I were game.
I’ve never played that field again,
In outfield where I stood,
Although that day I found a friend,
A baseball brotherhood.

No Crime in Rhymin’

poetry that dares to be funny, edgy, irreverent

P.G. Barnett

Written by

Published author enjoying married Texas bliss. Just not so much bliss with the two female cats. Thus, the warped sense of humor. Writer of Henry James stories.

No Crime in Rhymin’

poetry that dares to be funny, edgy, irreverent

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