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Late in the ninth, fans fell to their seats.

Down by one with two costly outs,

The full count left only a single toss

For the enemy to vanquish their hearts,

And to defeat their hometown team.

Their hands clenched, their mouths gaped.

Ghostly whiteness flooded their faces.

But bold and brave, the best of batters

Calmly stood, poised and prepared.

The hurler of doom stood, confidently reassured

The bender would retire his enemy.

But the hometown hero had more in mind.

For he watched, he knew the glory-ender.

So he prepared. He ogled the ball

Strategically placed, deeply and darkly.

He spotted fingers, fittingly feeling for

The one seam that could end all hopes.

He stepped into destiny’s cage

Enclosing the fears of every battle

He had not won with the bat.

But he stood valiantly, facing potential loss.

The fire-thrower began, wickedly winding,

Preparing to pin the ultimate price

Of disappointment upon the cringing crowd.

Destiny flew from the fingers, dancing dangerously

From heaven to hell. But his leather hunters

Quickly caught sight. Thrown forward,

His Ruthian roundhouse rope

Completely connected. The white star

Softly soared far over the fence,

Into the heavens and into the hearts

Of the many fans rejoicing in victory.

Strolling the bases, he gallantly waved.

He did not whoop nor holler. He knew

The championship his homer had hailed

Belonged not to him, but to the people instead.

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