he could see the curve ball coming;
he knew it was going to break;
the score was 4-3, the count was 3-2;
a runner was on second;
’twas the 9^th inning of the game:
the game on the line;
the hurler, known for his fastball,
was sure you were looking for heat;
had he thrown the heater,
he knew that he would fan;
he adjusted for the breaking stuff;
at least that was his plan;
the pitcher took his stride toward home;
the right arm released the horsehide;
he took his short stride to swing;
the pitch he quickly realized
was coming at his head;
he knew it was a curve ball;
he could tell by seeing the spin;
his reflexes then took over;
ignoring his well-thought plan;
he ducked away from the missile;
then it started to break;
down and away it tumbled,
catching the outside of the plate;
the would-be slugger shrugged.
his dream of being the hero
against the foe’s best arm
had not worked out as planned;
the at-bat and game were over.

the batter had struck out.