A Brutal Battle of America's Pastime

Going to war armed with a metal pole, A stiff breeze cuts the summer air. Becoming safe is the primary goal, And the chattering and cheering begin to blare. I stop to turn and face my enemy, He stares me down, ready to battle. I can only imagine what lies ahead of me, But I'm tough, so I know I won't rattle. The first shot is fired, the battle's begun, And the shot comes close, but misses its spot. It may have come close, but I will not run, I dig back in and wait for the next shot. Wind kicks up the rust colored dirt, As a next shot, colored white, is coming near. So I deflect the shot away, without being hurt, Then dig back in again, feeling no fear. A third shot is fired in the ferocious fight, And as this next shot closes on in, I focus and swing with all my might, Knowing this is a battle I will win. I smack the shot long and far, This will be my moment of fame. The shot clears the fence and hits a car, And I know my homerun has won the game.