The Mustache at the Bat

The hot sun shone down brightly on the dusty patch that day
The bracket set up nicely to induce a mild foray
Seeded first and filled with thirst the OC troops stood tall
Excelling at all facets of their dealings with the ball
They quickly made dispatch of opponent number one
Then patiently awaited news beneath the beating sun
No sooner had they hung their hat when over came the news
Their nemesis was on the way, they who just wouldn’t lose
Their gleeful cheer turned somber like the turning of the tide
First Nation and the Mustache had been un-disqualified
The Pastor made a bee-line over to the powers that be
“The Mustache shouldn’t be here after making threats” said he
But the powers wouldn’t listen as they caved beneath the weight
Of the heaviness of doing right, so it was left to fate
The Pastor made it clear there'd be no mercy on this day
And the troops marched to the diamond so the Pastor then could pray
And First Nation wondered why OC would now commune with God
But they quickly joined the circle with a handshake and a nod
The Mustache made his way to each and every hand
Declaring total sportsmanship to each woman and each man
“Let bygones be bygones” said the man who’d made the threat
And thus the Pastor thanked the Lord, declared us all in debt
To the Lord for sending sun, not cold but not too warm
He left unsaid the sentiment of calm before the storm
Soon there came a bellow “Batter Up!” and then “Play Ball!”
The fielders were steadfast, each one focused with their all
Early in the contest she attempted first to third
Perhaps she thought he’d hesitate after last week’s scathing words
But despite their accusations from the last time they had met
He simply couldn’t hold a throw, not before or even yet
So he unleashed a rocket which skipped once into the mitt
And her foot came down upon it making “out” instead of “hit”
Regardless of the wishes for a quiet, simple game
He couldn’t help but vocalize his feelings just the same
So he shouted when he saw the perfect tagging with the ball
“I did THAT on purpose! That one was intentional!”
So the game continued and the home team built a lead
For the early game’s anxiety there never was a need
The troops would love to claim that they had won with fullest grace
Despite the claim the pastor had thrown squarely at her face
But truth be told this victory was sweeter than the rest
Oft times contentious battles are the wins that taste the best
Although it might be sinful, all the glee that they would take
They reveled in the following, the frosting on the cake
The Mustache took the bat stepping right up to the plate
Two outs in the last inning and a hunger yet to sate
The elder statesman pitcher lofted ball into the air
The batter stood there motionless as if challenging a dare
The ball descended through the zone, the umpire yelled “Strike One!”
The batter knew the time was nigh, if not the day was done
The pitcher tossed another gem, the batter poised and steady
He took a swing, a moment late, if only he’d been ready
The ball fell foul, the second strike, the crowd held in its breath
The team, First Nation, now had drawn a pitch within its death
The sun shone down upon the ball as through the air it fell
Afterward all Meldrum Bar would hear great OC yell
The ball turned only slightly, just a very gentle hooking
Divine poetic justice, for the Mustache struck out looking.

Anonymous