‘The Last At-Bat of Lyndon Braun’: A Poem by Michael Pietrack

The Last At-Bat of Lyndon Braun

The crowd was on its feet because they knew
it was the last at-bat of Lyndon Braun,
the biggest name to don the Falcon blue,
but they were down by eight with no one on.

In hardened hands, he lugged an iron bar.
He swung it twice, then heaved it to the earth.
He gripped his bat, the handle tacked with tar.
An arc of darkened spit fell to the turf.

Although his whiskered chin was brushed with gray,
the moment smoothed the hitch out of his gait;
he strolled like it was any summer day
on the familiar road back to the plate.

When the announcer called his name and number
a final time in that same golden voice,
“Now batting…” was a baritone of thunder
that prickled skin of men turned back to boys.

The tall right-hander, Kelley, peering down,
rested the ball upon his belted hip.
The slugger dug his spikes into the ground;
the pitcher nodded once and cinched his grip.

When Kelley kicked and let that heater loose,
the hissing fastball slithered up and in,
and Lyndon nearly lifted from his shoes
avoiding seams that buzzed to shave his chin.

A rain of boos cascaded from the crowd,
who paid to see the legend wallop one.
He searched the grandstands—restless, packed, and loud—
then found his worried wife and hopeful son.

The second pitch came fast as arms can throw.
It popped the glove but missed the target wide.
The count was Lyndon’s now at two-and-oh.
He thought, “Dead red, let’s give this one a ride.”

Kelley’s narrowed eyes received the sign;
he grunted as he let the third one free,
and Lyndon started, checked his swing in time.
The heavy sinker dipped below his knee.

In factories and diners, people stopped
to hear the broadcast on the radio:
“Lyndon looks and gets the sign from Pop—
he’s gotta turn ‘em loose on 3-and-oh.”

As Lyndon stepped back in the box, he thought,
“Ya ain’t about to take no stinkin’ walk.”
With fastballs streaking in like rifle shots,
he crept his right foot back onto the chalk.

The three-oh pitch was grooved down Middle Street.
He swung with every ounce left in his soul.
That sacred sound when ball and barrel meet—
“A towering drive…it’s hooking…hooking…foul!”

The women brought their hands up to their mouths.
The men put palms against their hatted heads.
A gasp in every barber shop and house.
“What might have been,” the commentator said.

Lyndon—halfway up the first-base line—
trotted back and bent to grab his bat.
He grimaced at the twinge that jabbed his spine,
then saw his son who wrung his Falcon hat.

The commentator said, “It’s three-and-one.
Both Braun and Kelley know what’s coming now.
It’s power on power, folks—this should be fun.
Braun wants it up; Kelley wants it down.”

Kelley whirled, a twist of gangly limbs,
as if a funnel cloud that harnessed force,
and he released the ball with driving winds.
Yet Lyndon tracked the storm and read its course.

A belt-high fastball bolted towards the plate—
the kind the likes of Lyndon never missed.
The aging slugger’s swing was fractions late
and tipped the pitch into the catcher’s mitt.

The catcher took a trip out to the mound,
and Lyndon thought, “Ya can’t get that one back.”
He closed his eyes and silenced every sound,
except for, “See it big and take yer hack!”

The radio at Joe’s Mechanic Shop:
“Kelley’s fastball’s blazing as the sun
today and seems to have some extra hop.
At three-and-two…expect old number one.”

But when the pitch rolled out of Kelley’s hand,
Lyndon’s stride was stiff; momentum stalled.
It was the pitch that no one could have planned—
the seams made crimson circles on the ball.

The slugger’s weight was forward when he swung,
his barrel cut above the tumbling spin.
All hope exhaled from every faithful lung.
“And down goes Braun—a curveball done him in.”

For just a breath he lingered at the plate,
the bat still warm within his weathered hands.
The crowd began to clap—but far too late,
then louder, louder till it filled the stands.

His measured steps were slow; his chin still high,
yet deep within, “I should-a seen it comin’.”
He tipped his Falcon cap to say goodbye.
The chant of “Lyn-don-Braun!” became a drumming.

The man looked over to his wife and son.
His boy put on the hat that he’d been wringing,
then held his mother’s hand—the game was done.
It was his last at-bat. He went down swinging.

Michael Pietrack is a poet based in Grand Junction, Colorado. He is known for his narrative poetry and novels written in verse, including Legacy: The Saga Begins (2023) and Boone (2026). He has placed three times in the Society of Classical Poets International Competition with “Ballerina,” “The Loons of Colby Lake,” and “Grindstone.”