The round ball rises high in the wind
They watch it go, soaring higher with the heat
It ripples through the air, a dirty brown against the blue sky
Little Junior catches it without missing a beat

Twa wina! The boys chant with glee
Bare feet in the mud, shorts hiked up with string
They scoop Junior in the air
Marching out, they continue to sing

The opponents shrug and grin
Their batter drops his bat
In truth it was ripped from an old stair railing
They join the cheers, for there’s nothing wrong with that