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At the ballgame a man with his hair in a bun,
Was watching the children, and his wee, tiny son,

Who came up to bat with the game on the line,
He looked to his coach, who gave him a sign.

So he did as was told and held out the bat,
Across old home plate it was level and flat.

The pitcher just smiled and threw at the plate
Never expecting what came down to fate.

The ball hit the bat with the slightest of pings
And off went the batter with his feet full of springs.

The catcher and pitcher went after the ball
For the batter himself was tiny and small,

They didn’t expect any hit from the boy
Who had held out his bat so playfully coy.

Neither one got the ball to throw it in time 
And the boy was called safe in the bottom of nine.

The pitcher was flustered and made a mistake
By throwing a ball for ball throwing’s sake.

He threw away pitches, none down the pike
Eleven straight balls and not even one strike
.
If this final pitch didn’t reach to its mark
The tiny, wee boy who had ignited the spark

Would amble right in and finish the game,
With that winning run being scored in his name.

The pitcher wiped the sweat from his brow
And the hitter straight fooled him, and how

He leveled his bat straight across home plate
He stood there so calmly, just lying in wait.

In the ball came with some furious speed
Traveling just so, as the pitcher did need

But what happened then could nobody see,
The little, shy boy who was so tiny and wee

Had stolen home plate and slid right under the strike
Surprising the pitcher, his coach, and the like.

The wee, tiny boy had won them the game  
To prove to himself that he was the same.

He could play with the big boys, and match them with wit,
Never again on the bench would he sit.

The wee, tiny boy would go on to play,
And joyously tell of that one glorious day.
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