Bethesda Field

Below harsh lights, in a late inning chill,

A boy on third expecting to be stranded

Repented of his sins while sinning still.

Meanwhile, at home base, as fate demanded,

Stands an aged player. At this late hour,

After all these seasons, by a weird whim

Of fate, he’s up.  He once hit with power,

Now all doubt there’s another hit in him.

The pensive fans could sense, at oh and two,

The game slipping away.  His stats revealed

No cause for any hope.  The pitcher threw,

One last swing, the ball sailed to the outfield.

All those who saw it said it made them cry.

He’d performed the perfect sacrifice fly.