Something there is that will not glove a ball.
Mitts fall apart; the webbing is too tight.
Wild men who leap and drop it in mid-flight—
What but design of darkness to appall?
Nor is the art of bobbling hard to master.
I have been one acquainted with its bite.
Hot grounder! Hot grounder! Burning in the night!
What immortal hand or eye is faster?
They cannot scare me with their extra bases,
The hands that wrought them or the fans to see.
A bad hop is a world made cunningly,
But I see pennant where the sticking place is.