Perfect Game

It doesn't mean anything.
Nothing more than a little practice,
A little time to stretch out,
Throw the ball, hit the ball,
Nothing important.
It's only March, it's only Florida,
The scrubs play half the game
And the pitchers are still off-time.
But number forty-five sent six men down
Five swinging, one looking,
In the three innings he had.
Two showed us all more eye than bat
Each time he took the plate.
The wind was blowing in in right -
Which hurt them more than us,
With seven's speed and arm
(Twenty-three aside.)
But number five went left and out
And everyone came home smiling.
As thirty-eight's grip slipped
But the close play cleared up 'Out!'
And fifty pumped his fist
And cheered forty-seven on the mound
As the last man went down --
They say it doesn't matter,
That it's only spring.
But the game
Was perfect.