Three Cheers

Here it comes like a fastball thrown by an energetic pitcher
Hot tempered and would be damned if anything gets by it,
Destined to find the missing spot, where the bat will fly by,
Without a thud, or a thump, a whisper of open air just under or above,
And the people will not be expecting it,
They've been on the edge of their seats,
Staring and seeking out with beady little eyes from far off seats,
Guessing and second guessing the intent and arrival of said baseball,
The throw is wild and deliberate and it smacks hard into the catchers mitt,
And the man's hand is sore, and bruised, but not broken,
And the crowd leans in and ponders it as the umpire shouts "out",
That was the third strike of the night, the third out of the inning,
So the people hang their heads low, dragging their knuckles on solid ground,
The smell of beer brats, and popcorn balls,
The smell of stale ales, and ketchup packets,
That have exploded upon cemented bleachers,
And on blue and gold bucket seats,
The batter goes and he takes his place on his bench,
The game is over, the people stroll home,
Perhaps its time to call it quits, to hang up the helmets,
Steal away the gloves, and the grass stained uniform,
To take a relaxing warm bath with salts and herbal remedies,
To relax the knuckles in a bucket of ice,
To sigh with utter conviction that he gave it his all,
As he gave it his all in every game of his life,
Time is catching up, the wind is blowing low,
The stadium is emptied, and the ghost of fanatic shouting is heard echoing,
As the phantom people are rejoicing,
And as he stands in his street clothes next to the home base,
He takes his batters stance and knocks one out of the park,
"This is for you," he mutters to himself,
And then he swings again at the spectral throw,
"So was that," he says this time in a low and convicted tone,
One more chance to make it all count,
And this one he hits half way around the world,
He is legend in his game,
In himself he is the master of his sport,
So he runs around the bases, a total of three times,
A triad of shouting, and rejoicing, and he waves his hands up in the air,
And makes applause come from the empty chairs,
And when he makes it back to home he sits, and stares down the pitchers mound,
It is certain this was his final game,
It is also certain that it was lost,
But in the eyes of god redeemed himself,
And in the eyes of the angels,
He's redeemed his team.